A Long Time Coming
by SomeoneUnimaginative
Summary: Three hundred revolutions ago, a Civil War that ravaged a powerful empire grinded to a halt with the deaths of both the Aggressors and the Rebels. But now, a sinister unworldly power is rising which promises ruin to all and only one can stop it.
1. Prologue

**A/N : Anyway before you continue to read, all characters, places, creatures and monsters all belong to me, because they are created from a wierd little world in my imagination!**

**Enjoy reading, and tell me what you think!**

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** Prologue: A Long Time Coming**

The man cowered in the darkened corner as he saw his former custodians being consumed by the result of their lust for power. He had warned them. Oh, how he had warned them! But the fools had meddled with a greater authority and got their just reward. The heat of the tower seared him and sweat poured off him in waves. His once grandiose clothes with their gilded linings were stained in hues of brown oil and were ripped in multiple places, showing the purple bruises and red cuts he had sustained in his damned work.

Around him, the bloody red light spread through the air as if it was some kind of living disease cloud, for it did not look wholesome to him at all. It looked as if the full moon had usurped the place of the sun, luminously glowing as the dark radiance extended across its face. But only a fool would think that was good.

It was ironically peaceful, illuminating the sky as if a new dawn had come in the middle of the night, if not for the sounds of battle outside and the echoing screams of the men who had been consumed by the creatures beyond the gateway. Looking up, he could see the grey colours of the arched roof starting to wash red as the light touched it, parts of it cracking under some unseen strain.

A support column fell, barely crushing him, as the central tower started to fall apart around him, the influence of the uncontrollable gateway too strong for the meagre building. He gasped in pain as a chip of flying stone embedded into his arm, as the plummeting pillar splintered as it hit the wall, showering large chunks of stone over his head. But the stones did not fall on him as intended, instead curving towards the darkened surface of the Gateway looming in front of him.

He had edged away from it as fast as he could when it had been unaffected by his control mechanisms. The Councillors had been the ones controlling it, before they all foolishly stepped through the gateway to their probable deaths, while they doomed the rest of the world to its power. That woman, Liaane, had been right; he should have just destroyed the papers of the Last Cartographer before they had been captured, but he had been too foolish, too weak to allow himself to pass the knowledge into the sands of time. And now he would pay for it with his life.

Equipment, plans and the general debris of the tower flew passed him to be engulfed by the expanding monster, he himself feeling the gradually strengthening pull. He knew what would happen if it went unabated and if he didn't do something then he was as good as dead, as well as the whole world if the theories were right.

The door opposite him flew open as four guards entered with sword blades forward, only to be surprised by an invisible pull, their swords wrenched from their hands. All four slipped on the stone and hit the ground in their heavy Dragon armour, trying to claw their way back to the door. In any other situation this would have looked comical, but the man shuddered in dread and sorrow for the guards. The poor fools were too close to Gate, and one by one, each was taken to their waiting graves beyond, their screams as horrific as those who had gone before them. And he knew that now only he could stop the people of the world from sharing the same fate, before the barrier between the worlds tore enough for the things on the other side to be let out. Nobody was coming to help.

He stood up shakily, only to trip on one of his stabilising ropes and be sucked towards the Gateway. He screamed and flailed his arms wildly into the air, and was lucky enough to get caught onto one of the massive containment devices he had brought with him for the induction. He jerked in pain as his arm was nearly ripped out of its socket, but he still managed to hold on, his muscles protesting against the pressure.

He looked into the gateway just metres behind him. The dark murky creatures, just inside the gateway's liquid transparent black and blue surface, beckoned to him with their strange blurred limbs, to let go of his troubles and peacefully slide into their warm embrace where he could be at peace forever.

But he had seen how they had ripped the Council to shreds; he had heard their haunting screams of horror. He would not be so easily enticed like they were. He held on as he tried to think of plan, his situation making his mind panicky and flighty. His thoughts drifted to the section of his mind which reasoned that it was hopeless just to continue to prolong this pain. As far as he was concerned, he was dead already, so why not just let go? He longed to let go, and join his soul with those beyond…

But he brutally wrenched himself out of those thoughts with the parts of his mind he still controlled. He didn't want to die, least of all in that place.

Pain lanced up his leg joints as the already vicious pull gradually became a tug of war. He struggled to keep himself on the metallic machine, but saw that the mechanism itself was slowly being pulled in. He finally realised that there was nothing he could do to save himself.

With the rising fury of a madman, he cursed the Council for bringing him to his death along with them. He had been forced to make the most dangerous object known to man for them and now the world would pay for his folly. He should have killed himself when he had had the chance. But even then, he would have been denied the pleasure of foiling them. They would have just found another, and though it would have been a waste of considerable time, they had gained all the time in the world after bringing the peoples of the whole continent to heel. Inside, he still wept for his homeland and his family, and in joy that he would soon join them in death.

As he prepared to let go of the machine and resign himself to the inevitable, he heard a hard clang.

Just beyond his reach and stuck to one of the containment device's highly electromagnetic generators, was his failsafe controller. In a world of magic, nobody had ever thought that his inventions would one day save the humankind. His electric and radio inventions had always been looked upon as eccentric but otherwise useless to modern life. He now took pride that they had actually made a difference.

He would not be able to save himself, he reasoned, but if he had a chance to save the world, why not take it? He would be remembered forever in history as the man who saved the world from the evil experiment of the Council, even though he was the one who created the damned portal in the first place. Maybe this deed would eclipse the other, would make up for the pain he had caused.

He reached up and was nearly pulled off the device when he lost leverage with his right hand. He would have to be more careful. But, he thought as he looked back at the gateway, now just a metre behind his dangerously dangling feet, time is precious and I don't have much left to afford being careful.

His muscles ached as his right hand again left its handhold on the cold metal chassis. He slowly reached up and secured his hand onto the base of the controller. Relieved that his hard work had not been in vain, he pulled on the controller to take it off.

He discovered it was stuck fast, as if it had been glued to the generator. Neither could he reach the failsafe button. He cursed his luck and pulled harder. The contraption did not budge.

In desperation, he shifted himself so that his weight was centred on his right hand and pulled with the last ounce of his strength. The controller was successfully wrenched off the machine, but the resulting disorientation of his action slid him a few more precious inches to the portal. To his eyes looking back over his shoulder, it seemed to try to reach out to the soles of his shoes, though of course that was impossible. But who knew what was possible in this world?

He prayed to the Gods above, if there even was a Creator, that he would succeed, for the sake of the world if not himself. He pushed a red button on the controller to engage the failsafe procedure, fixed it onto the machine chassis and with relief let go of the containment mechanism.

In the spaces between time and thought, something appeared to him for only a heartbeat before dissipating into the darkness of the tower. The form of a man took shape to his eyes, though at best it could have been described as a black creature. Folds of darkness seemed to gather around the indiscernible figure, permeating the shape, as two folds opened at where its face should have been to show dark yellow jaundiced eyes with black pupils. Slowly, what looked like hands developed, but they weren't really hands. They were claws, long and curved claws. Its lips seemed to form a word, and though it was but a whisper, the word and the message echoed into his mind. Stark terror flowed through him as he slowly seemed to tumble into the Gateway, trying to speed up to escape the greater of two evils. As his mind jolted around in his fright, a calm centre in his consciousness knew that it was the end of him. _Forgive me and may my sacrifice not be in vain._

As he was sucked into the portal's depths, the failsafe device activated. The portal started to flicker, and in a few seconds quietly dissipated along with the near-solid darkness that had been formed in the middle of the tower. A few more columns collapsed at the sudden change in gravity. The air remained still as if the momentous event had never occurred.

But the power, the strength of the properties that had been imbued to open the portal then lost its stability and in a flash of light, the tower, the castle and whatever remained of the battling armies outside were obliterated, leaving only a crater as testament of the powers that had been unleashed.

---

Reality itself folded and the Watcher sneered as the man flew into the gateway, just as the failsafe device activated. He could not interfere, not in this place where his powers grew weak. Here, even a human without the Ability could overpower him if he knew what to do. The Watcher could only watch, while the plans of the Master went awry. He would surely be blamed for this failure, no matter how it occurred. But even so, he planned to make this man pay, for the rest of his life and beyond, for this offence. And plans could always be reconstructed and revived again.

One of the Master's greatest virtues was patience; time meant nothing to him when he was in a place where it did not exist, only primal haste. He would be infuriated, though, when the goal that had practically been in his grasp again slipped through his fingers. Reality started to shift slowly, and even the power of the Watcher could not hold time forever. Now, it was his time to go. In the place between thoughts and the fabric of universe itself, he entered the portal after the man, into the place which his prisoner would be punished for the duration of his existence.

---

Zaor put his spyglass down, and looked over the field of fighting men with the normal sight of his eyes. The fighting had intensified in the middle of the chaos, but the commander of the opposing army was as smart as General Dariol who stood beside him, looking through his own small silver spyglass. If this man was as good as a great Marshall General, then it was probable that the Council had found another Marshall to command their own armies.

Even now, he could barely see the subtle strategy that the enemy commander was employing amidst the tight knot of fighting men. But that was hardly as important as what was happening in the tower beyond, situated in the middle of the great fortress that was known to men as Daornost. There, the fate of the world would be decided. But Zaor would not be there to influence it; the combined Council would overpower him quickly enough, though he was more than exceedingly powerful against four members together.

He brought up his spyglass back to his eye, sweeping it over the dark walls of the fortress a second time. Then, the discrepancy that had so nagged at his mind finally revealed itself. There were no men whatsoever manning the walls! That would have given them a very good advantage, but why hadn't they exploited it? Puzzled, he brought the spyglass back down and fastened it onto his belt. Suddenly, the moon started to shine, but not of the normal shade that Zaor had seen it to be in this world. The fighting nearly stopped, as everyone looked at the source of the light. That was to be expected. Even Zaor was struck with unnatural fear.

In mere moments, the blood red pigment that had tinged the colour of the moon suddenly shone brightly on the surface, as if a veil had been abruptly removed. And the light started to shine among the men of the battlefield. As abruptly as it had stopped, the fighting began again in full force. Zaor heard a bone shattering roar pierce the sky and looked above, as did his retinue of soldiers and officers. In the distance behind the shape of the fortress, dozens of creatures flew through the red that was the air toward the conflict, and rain started to fall among the field.

As an explosion that seemed to come from nowhere shook the deeper battlelines, Zaor knew instantly where it had come from. Glancing over the wall's battlements again, he barely glimpsed a figure flanked by two others, a woman it seemed, with dark hair, wearing black robes with the colours of her Master's empire ribboning down the left shoulder. As the ferocious shaking reached his quadrant and the ground itself started to lift, he barely managed to shout a warning.

'Get down, all of you!'

As his entourage followed his instructions, he paused for a second to take a last glance at the woman he had once known, before diving into the rain soaked mud, dreading the dark future which now seemed inevitable.

---

The murky towers of the Daornost fortress flashed as it was bathed in a white-hot light before returning to the red shade which did not seem to have a source. The stone itself was glowing red, as the spell intensified and the experiment reached its zenith. The fighting had escalated between the armies which contested just outside the walls, men in polished dark armour and black-polished steel helmets, which made them look akin to ferocious black beetles, fighting against a ragged group of veteran and hard-eyed soldiers, men of varying nationalities from Tiiarian, Delagorian, Yarian, even some of the remaining Taron.

It could be distinguished from the armour they were wearing; some donning the armour of the Silver Gauntlet from the Tiiarian army, some with the Delagorian burnished blue and green armour with the conical helmets and a handful of men even wearing the purple armour of Marines in the Yarian Navy. And the Taron were in their ancestral armour, the scintillating white colour of their impenetrable hardened suits with the strange hawklike helmets.

But, in the darkness, Liaane could not tell much about the battle, except that the Rebels were outnumbered two to one by the Supreme Conquering Army. It was not good odds for the Rebels, and they, in their desperate attempt to divert attention from the Experiment, knew that too. Perhaps that was why they attacked in the night too, though that was a disadvantage for them as well as the Supreme Army. The pounding rain did not help things either, creating a makeshift red curtain in the air as the light shone through it. But how could they still hope to stand against the full five battalions of the Conquering Army?

A grey leathery animal flashed passed the moon, drawing her eyes as it swerved back to the battle below. Other flying _Daes'Curand _hung in the air with riders on the backs, the shining black beetle armour of the pilots distinguishable from even that great distance. They were feared by everyone who thought rebellion and were instrumental for negotiating bloodless surrenders, though the conquerors weren't so forgiving afterwards. The creatures' long talons, scaly lizard bodies, razor-toothed jaws, wings and overall largeness made them an impressive, and fearsome, sight.

Before she could blink, one of the seemingly lumbering beasts struck lightning fast at a knot of heavy fighting in the centre of the field, throwing the shapes of men sprawling into the air. But before she could take another blink, a fireball erupted out of nowhere and hit the beast with a white blast, spraying what seemed to be living fire onto it. Wherever that fire hit, it started to spread, and quite a number of men fell to the ground, blackening as the flames fed on them. She had seen such displays and manipulations of the Great Fount before, but she could not pin down the person who wove it before a distraction intervened.

Suddenly, she heard the sounds of crumbling stone from inside the tower and before she could look, the Master came out from the beleaguered tower in haste, hooded in the dark robes of a _Daes Tarsad_. She thought it was strange for him to be wearing that; those who had originally donned those robes were long since extinct. Her Firebreather guards tensed in attention before being dismissed by the Master, the sounds of their creaking armour disappearing into the red darkness.

Motioning her to follow him, they set out from the tower up to the stairs leading to the ramparts of the fortress, which were completely unmanned, a severe tactical disadvantage. Why the Master had required it to be so, when he knew the risk, she could not fathom and neither had he deigned to answer. As they reached the outer wall, he started talking in a hurried voice unused to his constant demeanour of confidence.

'Liaane, we are leaving. It seems that I have miscalculated. This whole place will be turned to dust in a few minutes. Curse those fateful fools fighting down there! I was so close!'

For a moment, he stood at the edge of the battlement, looking down upon the glorious army he had amassed, and the rebels he had so underestimated. They had done something remarkable; made even the great Council hurry its steps to complete the Experiment by the sheer force of their suicidal motivation, resulting in the final cataclysm which was yet to swallow this place.

'The portal seems to be growing and there is nothing I can do to stop it' he continued in a resigned voice.

'We will have to abandon the army and this whole continent, go into hiding until we can find a way to quell it.'

Listening calmly, she replied in a smooth voice she had grown used to using. 'Does this mean Zaor has won, Master? If we leave, without the Councillors, then you will not have the strength to be able to face these… Rebels… for some time.'

The Master snarled at her angrily, his dark eyes ignited in dark anger. 'The Councillors are already dead! Killed by their own damned ambitions! I will not make the same mistake they did. I will bide my time until the next moment that Ioradas is at its weakest, like the Watcher who had so manipulated my plans.'

His face abruptly split into a malevolent smile, and he bared his teeth in the fashion of a predator with its prey trapped in a corner, waiting to be taken on his whim. 'Zaor made a mistake coming here with the last of the Taron. He and his friends will die in the portal, before he knows that I've at least partially succeeded in creating it. Besides, he will never leave his own men.'

As he finished, the Master quickly wove a Skip in time and space, and a hole formed in front of them, a clearing in a forest immediately on the other side. 'Lets leave this place. We have much work to do,' he said, smoothly stepping through.

But Liaane faltered for a moment, and looked out at the battle. The corpses of those who had fallen were trampled by the tens of thousands that fought on the Plain of Delaoran. On the other side of the field, the banner of the Taron stood, flowing against the cold wind. The Crescent Moon and the Fireball. But she looked to the side of that banner, where the Commander of the Ioradas Coalition stood, arrayed in the armours of the Taron. His dark hair, his towering height and aura of command marked him clearly.

Zaor would die, along with the rebellion he had helped to orchestrate. And so, the age of the Taron would be ended when his kin went along with him. The prophecy would be fulfilled, and a new power would rise again, one as great as the one who lead the Coalition. But it would destroy half the world as Draemor and Zaor destroyed the continent in their conquests. And at the same time, it would save it.

She looked back at the tower. It was starting to collapse under the strain of an invisible force, the dark stone crumbling every second she stood on the wall. She had dallied too long. Stepping through the portal, she knew that the signs were clear and the next stage of _Taletron Codex_ was already in motion. Behind the closing Skip portal, the world shook and the fortress disappeared from existence. But she barely noticed even that. The _Sid'raniel_ was coming, that was certain. The Creator help the world for it, but he, or it, was coming.


	2. Legacy of the Past

The sun of the bright mountain sky glared down on the highlands underneath, illustrating the shapes of a small herd of stags at the edge of the river meandering down the face of the land into the golden desert below. If one could see as well as a hunter of the sky, the shapes of two men could be discerned from the bright reflections of the semi-arid land, crouching near the herd in a sparse clump of undergrowth that was able to grow in the relative shadow of the mountains.

One of them tested his hand-carved yew bow, his keen eyes trained on one particular stag just at the edge of the group. Not one of the group noticed the dark-haired figure with bright blue eyes remove an arrow from his quiver in the thick scrub. Arnoan Tlamris keenly observed his unsuspecting prey at the waters edge as he crawled through the small patch of undergrowth.

Breathing in the autumn air, he nocked the arrow and steadied himself for the final shot. His target, a young auburn stag, was almost carelessly taking a drink at the river, the morning daylight and its close comrades relieving most of its fears. It knew the animals around the mountain but it must have never met a hunter before. Hunters were seldom here, and the many did not brave the cold, treacherous mountain paths.

The stag foolishly wandered a few metres away from the main group. Arnoan held his breath and prepared to inevitably release the arrow from his hold, the animal in his sights. The stag was just about to take one more draught… Suddenly an arrow, not unlike his own, whizzed past his ear, startling him and striking the animal through the head, while his own misfired into the other copse where the herd had sought shelter.

Immediately, the whole pack of spooked animals bolted back towards the mountain forest from whence they came, the quick movement of the arrow signalling a predator amongst their midst. Arnoan gazed back at his greying uncle in the sand behind the thicket with a disapproving frown. A lined face grinned back insolently, the blue shining blue eyes and the brilliant white teeth contrasting with the black hair and desert tan. _Sometimes_, he thought, _that old man goes too far with his competitiveness_.

'Uncle, why didn't you let me take the shot? It is my birthday after all, and have you ever seen me steal your shot? Plus that arrow nearly nicked my ear' Arnoan complained with false contempt to his uncle's frequent immature gestures at challenging him at every turn. Strangely though, those challenges made Arnoan attempt even harder to beat him at his own game.

'Well,' replied he, his azure eyes glinting with hidden amusement 'I couldn't have you take all the glory. And, as you well know, _I _never miss.'

Arnoan rolled his eyes. 'Well, at least we got the meat,' he muttered under his breath as he went to retrieve his arrow. It was never a good idea to contest Freor in anything; the man had the unreasonable sense of an arrogant boy and at what looked to be the age of forty, that particular trait had not diminished.

Plus he was actually good at debating when he wanted to be and, for a man who had only ever claimed to have wondered through Aollane and the mountain forests, he had in fact claimed more exotic knowledge than Arnoan had ever seen anyone speak of. As for his age, his mother had always hushed him with complaints of his behaviour…

Actually, Arnoan puzzled, Freor had never given him an age or even a hint of it. He dismissed the unusual thought. It was considered rude to ask another's age and he based his misinformation on that rather than a deliberate ploy to keep his age hidden. But still, it was a strange thought.

Freor was practically the most at ease person Arnoan had ever had the pleasure of knowing, though there were times where he could have skinned the marrow out of people if he wanted to.

Tall and lean, with only a small streak of grey in his black hair, Freor was a very robust person. Though how he managed to keep such a figure, Arnoan could only guess. Maybe it was those jaunts of his which he occasionally went on, but they did not happen often. Many times, these travels of his lasted half a week, but once it had been a few months. That had troubled Arnoan's mother to no end.

He found his best arrow's splintered remains near a tree, where it had deflected against the smooth wood and practically fragmented against the resistance. That was the price of letting down your guard; Freor had often lectured him in his one thousand tips to good hunting. He collected the pieces and found Freor skinning the meat, packing the goods in a leaf wrapping.

As Arnoan approached holding the ruined arrow, Freor stuffed the wrappings in a meat pack and, with eyebrows raised, promptly asked 'What are you doing holding a piece of wood? Come and help me, boy!'

They were a good ten leagues from home, which was situated just at the edge of the Dividing Desert, near enough to the mountain forests of Aollane to gather food and seek shelter in times of danger.

They refilled their water skins at the river, prepared the meat properly for travel, and shouldered their bulging survival packs, hiking north down the gentle mountain slope. As always, Arnoan took in the golden beauty of the desert, its ability to bring death but also create some of the hardiest forms of life he had ever seen. He remembered how the desert turned into a huge sparkling; colourful painting of life after a good amount of rain had dropped on the area a year ago.

Plants of every description had sprouted from nowhere in the middle of the once deathly dry land, astoundingly colouring the whole landscape like a rainbow as they all grew, flowered and pollinated within the space of a few days. But as the moisture ran out, one by one they all died and their detritus joined the sands. But, in balance, they had sowed the seeds of a new generation, the desert covered with pods, ready to germinate the long gone splendour of the wasteland once the rains again arrived.

In these parts, witnessing this power of nature was a once in a lifetime event. Even Freor, who had lived a very long time in the desert, said he had only seen this phenomenon only two times in his lifespan, each lasting only a week.

After five leagues of travelling and in Arnoan's case, thinking, the land turned semi-arid and sand started to appear in greater amounts amongst the resisting plants. They made it to the edge of desert at sunset, arriving to the small farm under the shade of the mountain. From the distance of only a mile, Arnoan could make out the silhouettes of the thin cattle in the paddock and the short stone fence along the perimeter of the ranch, still defying the hunger of the desert.

His aching feet longed for him to get there faster, the soft chairs and, more importantly, his bed beckoning him. Both of them made the distance quickly, each with his own physical hindrances and longing thoughts of home.

His mother, Shandris, greeted them from behind the smooth gates into the front yard, the stinging hot sand in the wind having filed it away over the years. She was a strong woman with an energetic stride and penetrating green eyes, with dark hair and with a tan equal to that of Freor's. Only of middling height, both Freor and Arnoan surpassed her in stature, but that did not make her any less intimidating. As they stepped up to the gate in even strides, Arnoan was glad to be home, observing it appreciatively as he always did at the end of every hunt.

Their tracking in the nearby mountain forests for food were becoming more vital and more frequent. Their resilient herds of cattle were growing thin, even though they were devouring the fresh grasses of the mountain plains. It was becoming necessary for their survival as fewer butchers and tanners brought their wares and unrest inside the community started to affect the markets.

Money was becoming scarce and everyone below the level of nobles was being affected, as people ran out of money and jobs and businesses went bankrupt. All this for some war in the west with a far off country Arnoan had never even heard of. He was pulled out of his thoughts as his mother started to speak.

'How did your hunting go? I hope you let Arnoan at least take a few shots, Freor. It is his eighteenth birthday after all and both of you can get your childishness quite out of hand over it sometimes,' she asked serenely, smiling at Arnoan while somehow scorning Freor.

'Me, childish?,' replied Freor, hands in the air in an effort of innoncence. 'I think you might have mistaken me for the boy. He is the one who makes the trouble, while I hunt the meat.'

Shandris was experienced with Freor and knew the connection with him and conversations stating his flaws, which he debated to the point of ridiculousness. He could be quite immature at times, though Arnoan knew that there was a serious side of him buries deep inside. She looked coolly at him and replied, 'Perhaps. But perhaps _you're _the real boy of the family, though a remarkably big one' and with that went inside.

Freor chortled in a silent laugh and told Arnoan how his mother might just be starting to go blind like he had predicted. As they entered the kitchen from the outside veranda, they could hear merry sizzling from a pan and the smells of cooking vegetables. Though they had a highly coveted stove and coal storage, they all voted to have their dinner out in amongst the late sunset, and soon, the stars.

Their efforts then roasted over the fire for dinner, and the three of them ate and drank to their contentment, exchanging merry banter and debating over the finer points of hunting, skinning and cooking. For Arnoan, this was a routine which he often enjoyed. His small family were not often serious, except perhaps in times of crisis. He had often wondered who his father was or if he had any other family members other than his mother and uncle.

He had noted that his mother, and more incredibly his uncle, was tight-lipped about those delicate subjects. He had not asked about it since he was fifteen, sensing danger in upsetting his mother approaching those particular topics. But he had always wondered, when he saw the families that his friends had. Finally, they had settled down in the kitchen, with their bellies bulging with meat, bread and for his uncle, beer.

'So, what will be the schedule for tomorrow?' asked Shandris to Freor. Freor digested his food for a moment before replying.

'Well, I thought me and Arnoan could go to the market to see if there's any change. We should also get some news. And don't worry, we'll keep the purse tight,' he added, contentedly grinning.

'Make sure you do. Arnoan, you can go to bed now, and we'll see if we can meet some the buyers at the market for our wares. I will tie them up in packs by the door tomorrow'.

Arnoan obliged his mother and walked out of the kitchen. He entered his small bedroom, the work of the day wearing down his footsteps. As he entered his bedroom, weary from his exertions, he noticed he had forgotten his bow back at the kitchen. His mother would be sure to make a fuss in the morning and he had to make sure that it was conditioned for the next day.

He cursed his tired mind and walked back to the kitchen, wanting to be in the respite of his soft, warm bed. But before he entered he heard his name being mentioned in a soft voice. Immediately, he engaged the stealth skills he had learned from hunting, gently lowering each foot with gentle precision against the wood. Thankfully, it didn't creak.

Interested in a conversation with his name in it, he vowed to know what they were talking about. He leaned against the wall just beside the door and positioned his ear as close to the sounds as possible. He knew it was wrong, but excitement and curiosity got the better of his whole life, they had always kept one secret from him; his family and his father. So if they were talking about his father, he had a right to know and if not.... Well, it couldn't be that bad a secret. After all, they had lived their lives only as simple farmers and hunters.

The voices reached him a few second later as his ears adjusted, drawing him out of his thoughts.

'… probably but even then we couldn't.' the soft voice his mother was unmistakable.

'But we must,' replied the harder tone of Freor. 'Trouble is stirring up in the east. At Aallane, riots have broken out in support of him and it may reach up even to these mountains. Brigands would be rife again and this region wouldn't be safe anymore.'

'The whole province of Aollane is breaking apart. If we stay here, we will drown in the inevitable flood. We have to make the boy understand, though we won't tell need to tell him everything. He is still searching for him after all these years. We must flee.'

'Alright, Freor. I hope you know what you're doing. I still think that King Liorian will be able to suppress the riots. And then we could keep Arnoan safe here for a little longer,' she replied.

'Look, I know that you are reluctant to leave, but if we go now we could get Arnoan to a safe place. I know the man that's hunting him as well as you do, but I've seen how he thinks, how he works. I do advise that we leave tomorrow, though we can stay here for a few days at least.'

'We will consider this tomorrow, when we have clearer minds. For now, I am weary. Goodnight, Freor.'

Arnoan heard the scraping of a chair against the wooden floor. He could not be caught, even preparing his gear! It would look too suspicious.

Using the tracking skills his Uncle had taught him, he hurriedly but silently rushed through the corridor, back to his own room so not be caught. He blew out the lamps and catapulted into his own bed just in time.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway, and the shadow of a man's feet could be seen outside his door before gradually disappearing into the darkness, and the footsteps into the ambient sounds of the night outside. But once it did so, Arnoan was fast asleep, his previous excitement forgotten in his weariness.


	3. Sparks of the Deluded

The sun dawned at Arnoan's small farm, bringing a new fruitful day. Laying beneath his blankets, eyes uncomprehending and mind groggy, it took Arnoan a while to remember it was the day of the Aollane Autumn market. And of the words that had been said in the kitchen the night before. But he dismissed them from his mind and set his mind on the market; he had always been taught the value of patience. He would know soon enough from them anyway.

He could see them all now; merchants from all the provinces gathering to sell their wares; farmers bringing in their pre-Winter produce; local townspeople spending on food, exotic objects and wares.

But ever since the war which had struck Durandor and the Rael aggressors had taken half of the Dendrodal Province, it had stirred unrest and dissension between the peoples.

Life was not as simple as it used to be. There were more beggars for a start, he had noticed at his last visit to the Aallane, the Province capital. There was less money, less produce and less producers and that was the same situation everywhere. Even the Delagore Protectorate in the east was taking it hard as wealth and resources started to fade into the financial abyss of war.

The army needed resources and everyone was doing what they could for the war effort, but the relatively untouched peoples of the Aollane Province had grown wary and restless as the war was starting to be lost at the Soltaic Front.

To add to this strife and suspicion between people, a quarter of the people in nearly all Aollane communities were of Rael descent. There was many a division ever since the war started, and some small fights had sparkled the rest of the dry wood into a riot.

Arnoan would never have known any of this had he not overheard Freor talk to one of his merchant friends from the north about it.

He reluctantly got up from his warm bed and dressed. Putting on some worn slippers, he walked into the corridor beyond to the washstand at the room in the opposite direction of the kitchen. He washed up with cold water and proceeded to the kitchen.

As he silently padded along the wooden floor of the passageway, he heard Freor talking to his mother about the state of the country, talk which they always spared him from.

'Good morning, Arnoan' greeted Freor from his usual position at the head of the small rectangular table. He was clean-shaven and fresh, looking to already have eaten. 'Remember, we have to go to the market today to get some supplies and some news.'

After eating a slow breakfast, he completed his daily chores. He didn't complain. He had a more fortunate existence than those at the stands at the entrance of the Aallane market, where most of the poor gathered to beg for even a single copper Iorad.

Times of late, he had noticed every time he travelled to the market, had brought in more drifters. The news he had received from his friend, Gaelbril, who owned a shop there, had told him that the ruler of the Rael Empire had declared war a few months earlier after a tense diplomatic situation between their countries and that that was the cause. He also said that the councillors had come back from the old times and were going to enslave them all as in the past. Though he was a friend, Arnoan had sense enough not to trust in his word _too_ much; he was a voracious creator, receiver and deliverer of many rumours and he seemed to believe all of them by heart.

According to recent news, they had taken a couple of towns and cities in their surprise attack against the province of Denrodal and that had lead to fleeing of thousands of people in all directions.

Their advance had been stopped at the Soltaic front, where the war was being fought over the key city. But he, unlike everyone else, did not really worry who was going to rule them unless they didn't crank up the taxes too high.

He had known nothing about a war, his life being a simple farm worker. He didn't care either, for a war fought so far from his homeland, though he did not like the prospects of more beggars. He pitied them and did not wish for more suffering than need be, and these days the rich seemed to live on the damned foundations of the poor. It seemed that fear and hatred was ruling this land now; Arnoan had noticed it in all sorts of people and in different forms, the last time he had visited Aallane. For something so far away, this war caused even more trouble than the regional bandits.

As the warm desert morning drew on, Arnoan dressed for their journey and stepped onto the terrace, glancing at Freor saddling two horses at the gates, wearing the light colours of a thin desert garb. Unusually though, he had a sword buckled at his side and more than a few knives to spare, although the hunting bow strapped to his back was not amiss. The only thing that would prompt Freor to wear that would be an expectation of more than just a little trouble.

Arnoan helped him bring a few large heat-resistant packs, tying them down on the horses, and also a few water skins. Though Aallane was on the other side of the Teramor Mountains, which were famous for its forests, animals and springs, it was better to be cautious than run out of supplies and end up having to chew hard tack after their hunting arrows ran out.

Then, they exited the stables at the side of the house, which they were lucky to have in the poverty that was consuming Aollane. Leading their horses to the gate, they farewelled Shandris, as usual, and then started a slow canter. The city was not _that_ far, but it would a good hour of hard riding to get there, and they wanted to get there as quickly as possible without tiring the horses.

But it was not their plan to be caught by bandits while having a leisure ride; they had multiplied in the region and appeared at the worst of times. Nobody knew where they had come from, but Freor had ideas that some of these were deserted soldiers from the army or shadow guards working as bandits for the Rael Empire.

Today, there were not many travellers upon the Old Mountain Road, but that was to be expected. The appearance of someone on this remote region would likely be suspicious and another sign for bandits. The road was long, but compared to the others to Aallane, it was shorter and winded through a pass in the mountain range.

Everyone they met up the road travelled in groups and each person had countless knives and swords on them. Even Freor and Arnoan had equipped themselves with weapons, and they were well known and liked around the district.

Arnoan had never liked trouble, and had avoided it throughout his life like the plague. He never fought, for that would have only emboldened the aggressors he had met into further action. Always, he had walked away when confronted. Nobody ever faced him anymore though, for he was a master at self-defence as his Uncle had taught him. And plus, he was bigger than most men of his age.

As they neared the Capital of Aollane, the sense of security increased and they saw more people along the roads. The one thing that hadn't changed though was the weapons. The road had been reasonably level throughout their journey, but now it started to slope slightly downwards.

Around them, the mountain forest glittered almost magically, revelling in the glory of life. Calls of many creatures could be heard and the place seemed full of the energy of life. But soon, that all changed.

As they came within the last three miles of the city of Aallane, the capital of the province, something unforgivable had been done to the woods, the symbol of freedom of the people. Every tree had been blackened by fire and the stench of burnt animal flesh invaded their nostrils. The place had been defiled and the stench of pollution hung pungently around the road.

As they trotted along on their horses, a column of soldiers in dusty, burnt white armour walked pass, helmets off and every face weary. The commander took notice of them, but they were largely ignored when he continued to march.

In the distance, Arnoan could see the tallest spire of the castle which had stood in the centre of the great city for generations. But beside it was a pillar of smoke, overtaking the spire and rising into the heavens before disappearing into a black cloud above. Arnoan was already shocked with destruction of the wildlife, and thought with melancholy what the smoke up ahead may mean.

They exited the mountain forest into a bowl of land miles wide that was only filled with grass. Up ahead, there was high hill in the centre of the bowl which held the foundations of a great city. It loomed above them in the distance, constructed with pride in the white marble that was so plentiful in the mountain range.

It boasted a high fortified stone wall with many battlements, and only one entrance into the whole city. The sloping road curved upwards to the hill, to the great arched entryway surrounds by many protecting arrow holes.

The whole city was surrounded by cliffs, as it was situated in the middle of a great plateau. To get inside the city, one had but to take the road upwards, cross the wide wooden drawbridge which led from the angling road to the entrance, and then to cross the threshold protected by a portcullis and gate.

But even these defences apparently had not stopped the destruction which had occurred inside the gates. Smoke, great billows of it, rose from the silent city. All the other travellers had disappeared from the road, and he saw nobody enter or exit the large city. The whole bowl was still; not even a bird dared to chirp. A lump started to grow in Arnoan's throat.

Freor started to look uneasy as they neared the city, the smell of burning flesh overwhelming the pungent smoke, nearly reducing Arnoan to retching.

As they started to rise up the slope, they could now clearly see that the East Gate was ominously closed. Before they had reached the drawbridge, a sliver had opened in the gate, a line of men filing through the opening. As they positioned themselves in a wall before the gate, they drew their swords with a dull ring. Their blades were despoiled with blood, and their armour covered in numerous dents and scratches. They looked like the very outlaws that they had so painstakingly tried to keep clear of.

Arnoan looked them over a second time before realising what they were. His eyes widened as he took sight of them again, disbelief clear on his face and even more so on his mind. They were the a contingent of the Aallane Guardsmen, but they looked so outlandish and so different from what they had been that even Arnoan, who knew quite a few of them, had mistaken them for bandits.

Even more worrying was the fact that each face was drawn in grim determination, and they were prepared to kill without hesitation. He could tell something bad had happened, though he hoped not to find out and be turned away at the gates.

Once they reached the threshold of the portcullis, he could dimly hear the testing of bowstrings from the narrow openings which dotted the wall around the gateway into the city. Freor decided to stop them quite a distance from the line of men, who stood stiffly in warning.

As Freor prepared to speak, a man in slightly better armour than the surrounding men drew away from the formation of soldiers and walked up to them, though he stopped at a point where they would have to talk with inconvenient loudness to communicate.

'State your business, Freor! Don't even think to run or we'll turn you into a pincushion.'

A sudden look of anger came to Freor's face and replied just as strongly.

'Who are you to threaten me, Captain? Mordas, you know who I am and what my business is. Is your trust so unworthy that you would confront a good friend and threaten to kill him, even when he is powerless against the might of your men?'

The man called Mordas paused for a moment in sincere thought, shifting his feet uncomfortably, before warily replying.

'I am sorry, Freor. But where all on edge at the moment after what has happened here, and in our current condition we are pretty much suspicious of everyone. You may enter the city, but we will be watching you.'

With those last words, Mordas motioned with his hand, covered in a blood gored armoured gauntlet. With a grinding noise, hidden hinges swung and the gates opened just a fraction more. The soldiers started to form a surrounding square, boxing them in the middle. Then, they marched through the gates, into the unbelievable destruction beyond.

Arnoan's eyes widened as he saw what had happened to the place he had wandered in as a child.

As they entered the Aileon Square, he glimpsed at the bodies hidden under heavy woollen clothes littering the corners. There were marks of soot lining the roadways, as if fire had managed to burn on the hot stone. The statue which used to dominate the middle of the central fountain was gone; in the place of the stone king who had once proudly stood there was a beheaded figure hung from the arms by two ropes to two lamp poles. The bloodied man was like a voodoo doll; he had been stuck with no less than two dozen red-feathered arrows. Arnoan shuddered at the sight. The man must have had a horrible death; he probably was used as target practice by whoever had done this.

Freor stared blankly at the gruesome image, before he calmly meandered his way through the wooden wreckage and the gored weapons that lined the plaza. The square opened up for him as the men allowed him to approach the central fountain.

Arnoan did not follow, and instead he stared in horror at what Freor was doing. Sidling up to the hanging cadaver, Freor carefully dislodged an arrow from the flesh of the dead man with the slick movement of his hand, eyeing the gored shaft with minor distaste. Carefully, he held it up to the lamp so a small red and black insignia on the shaft caught the light.

He turned back to the square of men, signalling to Mordas. The captain kept his distance from Freor, but what they said was still too soft to be heard by Arnoan in the swath of awkward soldiers.

Abruptly, Freor hurried towards Arnoan in a brisk walk, and with the captain's orders the men parted before them. Soon enough, they were out the gate and leaving the city far behind.

Intrigued by the strange behaviour and all that he had seen, Arnoan started to question Freor with energetic fervour. For once, Freor seemed amiable to divulge important information about the wider world with Arnoan.

'The city was attacked by a Raelian soldier battalion. I suspected that it was the Empire's work, but I was only justified when I saw the insignia on that arrow. I asked Mordas about it, but he wasn't too cooperative.' 'All he said to me was that some citizens rebelled when the soldiers came to the gates, because they wanted to be ruled by the benevolent and compassionate leader of the Rael Empire. They believed the lies of Rael because, like so many people on Ioradas, they wanted to have some hope in a world troubled by hunger and war.'

'So, that's how the gates were opened', surmised Arnoan, solving the conundrum of the carnage that had occurred in the city.

'Yes. It seems that gate guards were overwhelmed by an angry mob, and the gates were opened to the battalion. A one-sided fight took place at the gate and plaza, but soon the enemy soldiers had taken the entrance and the main plaza.'

'But soon enough, they were besieged on all sides. Through the main road and the side streets, the garrison managed to drive out the invaders, close the gates and then pick off the last of Rael's soldiers with arrows. That column of soldiers we passed on our way here was apparently searching for any remnants of the battalion.'

After everything he had heard, Arnoan started to doubt that Freor was the man who he said he was. The façade which he showed to world was starting to crumble in Arnoan's eyes; how did he know all this? When Arnoan asked the very same question, Freor only answered in a suspicious 'I've travelled a lot' excuse.

Arnoan suspected that Freor knew more than he let on; it was evident that he was no simple farmer. Arnoan had never had any reason to question Freor's past and the strange journeys that took him months to complete, but now it was becoming evident that Arnoan was not privy to a world which seemed to include his mother and uncle.

When they returned home, Arnoan was silent throughout the evening, pensive and dismissive of the idle talk in which the conversation strayed into. Shandris was concerned, but after Freor recounted the destruction at Aallane, her mind wondered to other things.

As he went to sleep, Arnoan heard Freor proclaim that he would keep look out the entire night for anything amiss. The night was an uncertain prospect for Arnoan; he was still thinking about what had happened in Aallane. Out here, they were isolated by leagues from the closest town and would be easily taken by a small squad of warriors.

He decided that tomorrow he would convince Freor to form a plan to leave; in the midst of unrest and a potential war zone, they could not stay here. In the morning, he would see to it but for now it was time to sleep.

It was a vain attempt to delay fate, for neither Freor nor Arnoan knew that it was far too late.


	4. Trouble

Arnoan woke just at the brink of sunrise, awakened by an unknown sense which twinged in warning and anticipation. He heard something scrape in the kitchen, probably his mother cooking, just taking the pan off the fire grill in the early hours of the morning. He lay there for a while, uncomprehendingly viewing the world around with his sleepy mind.

After a few minutes, his mental acuity increased and with a flood of thought came the events of the day before yesterday. He cringed at the thought of leaving his home, perhaps even forever, but his excitement of adventure returned and with it, questions.

He would try to probe them for answers of what they were talking about yesterday, especially about this Draemor character, though he knew that eavesdropping on them was wrong. Still, he had a right to be told on everything that concerned him.

Suddenly, a wave of strength rushed to him, abolishing his remaining wariness and alerting him to an unusual presence inside the house. Puzzled by the sudden sensation, he ignored the feeling of danger.

He pushed himself up from his bed and went to wash himself in the small bathroom. Then he began to walk to the kitchen, hungry for his food. But as he approached the door, he noticed that everything was unusually silent and there were no aromas of cooking that usually wafted from the kitchen.

His instinct again gave him a prickling warning, and he started to creep back to his room. He had been taught the hard way to listen to instinct more often, like a sixth sense. Last time, he had ignored it at the first warning when he had been in the woods. It probably would have been his end had he not listened for the second, when a Gralm, a carnivorous animal the size of a bear with the mouth of a shark, had nearly ambushed him.

From his room he retrieved his bow, knife and a quiver of six arrows. He checked the hallway before silently proceeding to the hidden back entrance, used only in times of danger. He would not meet the enemy, if there really was one, on their own terms.

He had only used the back entrance when he was eight. A group of bandits had ambushed their home and they were forced to sneak out the back while Uncle Freor gave them a good fight from his vantage point on the outer terrace, which he had barricaded. It was the only time he had seen his uncle as a serious, sensible person other than the incident at Aallane.

He emerged from the plant overgrown door, which was the same colour of the brick around it, and jumped into the clumps of green foliage that surrounded the house, the last line of hardy vegetation until the yellow sandy wastelands of the Dividing Desert.

He crawled through the plants, making only a small rustle, until he could see the front of the house.

His instinct had served him well. Outside the house was his mother and a battalion of strange soldiers equipped in shiny armour adorned with crimson and bullion colours.

They were not any warriors he had ever seen. All the Durandor soldiers who had passed Aallane had worn white armour with blue capes billowing out behind them and their battered armour was not nearly as shiny as those of these men.

He unconsciously assessed the situation with the mind of a hunter against a group of prey. Calculatingly, he still listened to the voice of instinct in his mind and surveyed the area, taking headcounts of all the soldiers.

Shandris was sagging between two of those soldiers who supported her with their burly arms. She looked like she had been knocked out as there was a purple bruise on her forehead, but he was mistaken when she looked up. Looked straight into his eyes, as if she knew he were there. But soon enough, she bowed her head with weariness.

On the ground were about seven soldiers who had been killed, during what must have been a brief fight, probably when his mother had tried to escape. _But how did she kill so many?_ Even with her extraordinary fighting skills, it just did not add up.

She was in the midst of about thirty soldiers in a standard military parade formation, a column which stretched out to accommodate three men in each row with her about five metres outside the line. A dark haired man stood before her, speaking to her with a guard of seven soldiers behind him, before loudly ordering five soldiers to check the house again. Arnoan's uncle was nowhere to be seen.

After a minute, the soldiers came to report back. 'Nobodie' there, sir. It's as emp'y as this forsak'n desert', the leader of the five said in the light accent of the west.

The dark haired man then turned to captain, a balding soldier of tall height, and said 'Draemor told me there would be two others. They should be around here somewhere and they cannot hide forever in the desert. Spread out and search for them, but get your men clear of the house. I will flush them out first.'

The soldiers followed the captain's orders as he relayed them. They marched, Arnoan calculated, roughly about two hundred and fifty paces more away from the house, in a discipline rarely seen in any but the soldiers of the Royal Army of Durandor. It would have been impressive to Arnoan, if not for the reason they were here.

The man, who had stopped at roughly the two hundred metre mark from the house, then turned his gaze upon the house. He lifted his right arm out in front of him and made a curious motion.

Light seemed to gather on the palm of his hand, growing in size and increasing in luminosity, until it looked like a miniature sun. Arnoan could feel the heat from it, even five-hundred metres away behind thick scrub. The soldiers that were next to the man did not even flinch.

He turned his palm forward and the ball of light seemed to hover for a second before shooting at a remarkable speed at the house. There was no sound to speak of, only a white blur across his vision.

Arnoan saw the light hit the front of the house, and put his hands to his ears as an earth-shattering explosion rocked the world.

He instinctively ducked lower as he lost his vision in the brilliant white light. Flying red-hot fragments of the house sped through the air around him, a few searing him with close contact. The plant life and the sloping ground protected him somewhat and Arnoan was not directly hit.

As the explosion faded, he looked up. Around him, the plants had been shredded. The man was unharmed, and stood in a sphere of ground unmarred by neither soot nor debris, as if there had been an invisible shield around him.

'Spread out and search for them,' he said to the soldiers. 'Come out and surrender and she will not be harmed!,' shouted the man into the air around him, his voice amplified tenfold.

Before Arnoan had time to think, he was grabbed by the shoulder by someone from behind. He struggled as the man roughly pushed him over to face him.

His assailant wore the common garb of the desert dwellers, with a sword and knife sheathed at his belt. He looked vaguely familiar under his shadowy hat. 'Uncle?,' asked Arnoan, eyeing the face beneath the hat with his eyes partially blinded by the burning sun.

'What are you doing, you fool! Come on, we can't let ourselves get caught,' Freor whispered rapidly before motioning Arnoan to follow him. They made their way out into the open desert and hid in the occasional shrubbery they found. With Arnoan's green forest attire, they would be easily spotted in the daylight.

Arnoan was half expecting a shout of surprise and then quick pursuit from behind them, but none came. He could only hear the crackling of fire, growing distant behind him as he left the place he had called home for all of his life.

Freor quickly led them north into a hidden pathway which seemed to lead them into a craggy valley which Arnoan in his youth had explored frequently, though he had never found the path.

The valley itself could not be seen from the house or the path; it was too low and too far away, but Arnoan knew it was there. Meanwhile, the daylight dragged on with the scorching desert sun high in the air.

After a couple of leagues and as it started to get dark, Freor slowed his pace and brought them to stream inside the valley, enshrouded by a couple of trees and extensive foliage.

He then spoke to Arnoan, the first time since their flight. 'This is where we will make camp. Prepare a fire and refill the water skins I brought. Once we've had dinner, we'll talk,' said Freor.

Arnoan did so, while his uncle made camp and prepared the meat he brought out of his pack.

They cooked the meat on the pans Freor had also brought, and ate it in silence. Arnoan was miserable and angry at Freor. His world had collapsed around him in a few minutes and he had refused to tell him why.

His home was destroyed, his mother imprisoned by some warlord and he had been left completely in the dark by the people he loved most.

As they finished dinner, Freor fetched a pipe from his pack and lit it. Once he was finished, Arnoan glowered at him and said 'so, uncle, would like to tell me why I this all happened? Or are you going to keep me ignorant to the things that got my mother captured by a warlord and my home completely destroyed?!'

'Peace, Arnoan. Don't let your temper control you. It is not my fault that these things happened, so do not presume to judge me. I, like your mother, was trying to protect you from elements that would rip you apart'.

But Arnoan wasn't finished. 'I have a right to be told of everything that concerns me, Freor! And of this protection you claim to be doing, how can you protect me when you yourself were nearly captured along with my mother! How am I supposed to be protected when I'm so uninformed of the world I'm supposed to go into?!,' shouted Arnoan.

Freor sighed. 'I suppose you can't be kept ignorant like this. You're right. It may have been wrong for us to keep you unaware of the things that would harm you, but our intentions were good. We were trying to make you ready for a world rampant with cruelty and destruction. We were afraid you would rush into it if you knew,' he said.

'Rush into what?' Arnoan asked. Freor did not reply for half a minute, smoking on his pipe before answering.

'Arnoan, I made a promise to your parents a long time ago to protect you at all costs. There are some things that would endanger your life if you even knew about them. I cannot tell you everything just because you demand it. But I will tell you what you need to know,' he said.

'Who is Draemor? And what is happening in Aollane?' asked Arnoan without thinking. Realization came into Freor's face, before changing into sudden anger.

'You eavesdropped on us two nights before, didn't you?' Freor whispered, his face contorted into a calm simmer of rage.

Arnoan gave a slight nod, painfully aware of shame he would have caused his mother had she been here.

'You know as well as I how disgraceful it is to eavesdrop on a private conversation. You have lost the right to question me at all.'

Arnoan flushed at this statement, partly because he was disgusted of himself and partly for Freor for stating this flaw.

'But, under the circumstances I will dismiss it, so you can at least make up for it,' said Freor.

'Will you answer my question,' said Arnoan in a lighter tone.

'Very well. You don't know the history of the creation of the kingdom of Durandor and the provinces, I presume? Settle yourself down. It's a long story and I don't want to stop.'

Freor took a moment before starting.

'It all started five hundred years ago. A time of peace had begun after the conclusion of the series of wars that marked the destruction of the old council that had ruled the continent of Ioradas for nearly one thousand years in an iron grip. The lands of the future kingdom of Durandor were among those ruled by the council.'

'The council killed and tortured thousands of people during their rule, for they were malicious and hateful of all the people they governed and only lusted for power with which they could dominate.'

'The council had seized power in a revolution against the Emperor Illyrian, last of the Ioradas dynasty. The council had preached peace to convince the people to overthrow the "corrupt" Emperor as they stated.' 'But the wily councillors actually turned the people against the benevolent Emperor and Illyrian was killed by execution when the capital of Daornost was taken in a revolution, the size of which I think will never be seen on this continent again. In only the span of a few hours, this council of tyrants had the lands from Daornost to what is now Soltaic under their control.'

'The council then wasted no time to exact their authority on the people who were their subjects. They controlled half of the continent that is now called the Ioradas, while the other half was controlled by a number of small warring nations that would soon be conquered by the nation of Tiiarri, now known as Rael. But inevitably, even that land was soon conquered by the Council.'

'Though the councillors had extended their own lives by nine hundred years, their greed was boundless. The councillors lusted for power even greater than that of what they had and sought this by opening a portal which would lead them to places around this world. If they accomplished this, they would gain supremacy of not just this continent, but the whole world.'

'But before their plan could be put into action, the leader of one of the greatest rebellion factions at the time, stationed in the province of Aollane, found out via his spies and as quickly as he could gave resistance to the United Armies of the Council.'

'His name was Zaor and he was one of the Taron who sailed here from across the ocean. Taron, as you have heard in legend of course, did not originally come from this world, and nobody really knows how they came here, but they look exactly like a normal man except for their intimidating height and strength and they are renowned for their magical abilities, far greater than the normal human Ability wielders.'

'Zaor had lived here for about a thousand years and had lived in that time a hundred years of peace before the council came into power.'

'His kind was oppressed by the council because of their natural magical abilities and most of them died out in the first decade of their rule. None of the council was strong enough to go up against the Tarons, but they found alien artefacts that increased their power tenfold and this is what really brought doom to the Tarons.'

'It is rumoured that the race that created the artefacts were enemies of the Taron, in a war long ago for supremacy over this world, which the Taron lost, but that is another story.

'Zaor went into hiding and bided his time to eventually make a resistance from the few Tarons that had survived and the humans who hated the Council for their misdeeds.'

'When he found out about the Council's plans, he contacted the rebel leaders of the whole continent and united them. He then devised an attack against the council stronghold at the capital city of Daornost, where the councillors ruled from the province of Delagore.'

'But he was waylaid in his own plans by the leader of the council, a powerful magic wielder named Draemor. Draemor grouped his armies in a defensive formation around Daornost, while the other councillors made ready the portal, using a genius named Taolfas.'

'Draemor himself went to the last meeting that was to be held by the rebel leaders before the attack and killed most of the human leadership. How he got in, nobody knew. But the rebels were in disarray and Draemor was on the verge of winning total supremacy.'

'But Zaor somehow managed to group together the tattered rebel army, of which so many had deserted after the deaths of the rebel leaders, and staged the attack. He met the armies of the council in open battle on the plains of Delaoran, outside Daornost.'

'But the councillors succeeded in opening the portal, but through the portal was a place they had not expected. It was a dark place; it is said, full of nightmares and invisible horrors, a place not of this world.'

'Draemor knew in his experience that it was dangerous walking into this place, but he also knew from the books left by the Cartographer of Taraol, who had instructed them in the making of the portal, that a great artefact lay beyond.'

'It would give power beyond imagination to the wielder, though what kind of power, no one knew. Not even the Cartographer knew if this object existed, only that he had studied this other place and saw by the extreme warping of the Universal laws and power that a vast secret was beyond.'

'Draemor left the castle tower where the portal had been constructed. His colleagues, though, were enticed by the lies of power they saw in the portal and one by one, walked in.'

'They disappeared from this world forever and Draemor is the only one who is left of that order. After the destruction of the councillors, the portal then started to expand and would have consumed the world by now had Taolfas, who had constructed the portal machinery, not intervened.' 'The poor man destroyed the gateway at the expense of his own life at the hands of whatever was contained there, and in the process the whole capital city was obliterated as well as the battling armies beyond.'

'Only a crater was left, though the deeds will never be forgotten. After the defeat of the council, their lands split up into three authorities. The Empire of Rael, ruled by the Rael dynasty, the Kingdom of Durandor and The Delagore Protectorate.'

'Zaor disappeared, and few can say whether he is alive or not. Draemor rose back up from the scraps of his command three hundred years later and even now is alive, causing havoc in Ioradas, as you well know of course' concluded Freor, puffing on his pipe once more.

'How could a war last a _thousand _years? Its impractical, for any megalomaniac' Arnoan asked disbelievingly, still digesting the information.

'You will have to ask Draemor, or perhaps Zaor and the motivated people who craved for an end to oppression.'

'But why is Draemor searching for me? And how could he commit all those atrocities, if he wanted to conquer the continent? Isn't it better to have the population on your side?' asked Arnoan.

'All will be answered in time, Arnoan. And for one thing, he kept the population mostly silent of his deeds. Only a few people found out, and they were quickly silenced,' replied Freor 'But for now it's late. It's time for you and me to go to sleep. Goodnight.'

Freor proceeded to crawl into his tent. Arnoan waited by the fire for a moment, digesting the information he had been given. After a few minutes, he doused the fire and crawled into his own tent.

Suspicions whirled around his mind as he drifted into the peaceful, warm realm which was sleep. His mind was plagued by worries, but nothing was more prominent than Freor.

How did he know about all this? Who was he to say? Why am I supposed to be protected and from what? Arnoan felt that he had been dropping into a world where nobody would help or explain anything to him.

To Freor, he was just an ignorant child, an inconvenience; Arnoan swore that he could see it in his eyes whenever he talked with him. But he would show him how wrong he was. Soon…

A wolf howled far in the distance as he drifted off to sleep.


	5. Flight from Aollane

Arnoan woke, blinking at the confusing yellow light streaming into his wool tent from the entrance. Slowly, he rubbed his eyes in weariness, but as the memories of past events started to flood his mind again, he quickly snapped himself out of his lethargy. Springing up from his stout pallet, he immediately checked for his bow and knife, which he had laid near it. Both were where he had left them last night, with absolutely no discrepancies around the tent.

He roused his senses by taking a small skin of water and splashing a little of the cool liquid on his face, and then promptly crawled out of the cramped space.

'Good morning,' said Freor at the fire cooking breakfast, noticeably more jovial than the other night. Arnoan did not reply, still in thought. The smell of food from Freor's pan was enough to stir him though.

Freor handed him a plate of leftover beef stew which, which Arnoan wolfed down. He had not realized he was hungry until a moment ago, still thinking of what had happened such a short time ago.

His uncle wasn't as impatient as Arnoan at his food, so Arnoan dug through the packs Freor had brought with him, to occupy his time. Though he knew Freor had probably packed and checked them before he started breakfast, Arnoan could not find it in his heart to trust him more than half-heartedly. Through the examination, Freor said nothing and calmly continued to eat his breakfast.

As Freor finally began to look like he had finished, Arnoan stopped his inspection and asked, 'So, what now? Where do we go? What about my mother?'

'For now, we head towards the province of Denrodal, where King Liorian rules the four provinces which make up Durandor,' replied Freor, eyes drawn in thought 'as for the other matters; we will have to decide it on the road.'

'Why there of all places? We have to go north, straight through the desert for twenty-five leagues! The desert is impassable to us; we won't have enough water to make the cross' argued Arnoan. He had gone to the capital city of Durandor only once before, as passengers of a travelling merchant convoy to trade goods there in the spring. They had gone across the desert, since it was the fastest way, but even on well-supplied convoy, the journey had been made difficult with no water sources once they entered the desert.

Arnoan did not relish going back into the desert once more, especially if they were as ill-equipped and as desperate as this. He still remembered the ultra dry winds, the hot sand under soled shoes and the pinching clouds of sand tormenting him all the way.

'I have other ways to get water. As for why, we'll be safer close to the capital, with more of the King's soldiers around us, and our pursuers will not expect us to go through the desert. Plus the unrest in Aallane does not make me relish the thought of going up the mountain passes toward the east,' added Freor, always composed and logical as was his trait in stressful and frustrating situations.

Arnoan was forced to agree to Freor's logic, even in his ignorant state. He didn't know much about the lands beyond his home, but what his uncle was saying made sense. Where else could they go, where they would not be hunted down? He just didn't want to go through the desert for any reason and he was more used to the mountains.

Freor agreed with Arnoan that they would buy some horses first, at the town of Traem which was just up the valley, so to brave the desert. Traem was the closest town to their home, and Arnoan had gone there with Freor many times to buy supplies for the farm. It was a small settlement, unaccustomed to much excitement, but it was important enough that the yearly iron caravans from the mountains passed through on their way to Dorimune. Usually, the iron convoys brought supplies and news as well as iron, and traded with Traem for other goods. It was because of this that the town was as prosperous as it ever had been in the past.

They started their trek after packing up camp, dousing and covering the fire with dirt. In only an hour did buildings with thatched roofs appear into their line of sight, and other human activity became apparent. It was bigger than last time, with a few more new buildings but with tiled roofs instead of thatch. The compacted dirt path started to turn into a newly tiled road as they reached the outer buildings of Traem. It seemed the sturdy people who lived here had indeed done some nice work after the last time he visited. They had been planning to erect a few structures and make a few roads, but Arnoan had never expected them finished so quickly.

More people also walked along the streets, so Arnoan guessed that the new buildings were houses. Freor had brought nearly all the things they would need in his pack, and soon enough, Arnoan was equipped for the desert.

They made their way up the valley, sticking to the stream which eventually became a river.

As they reached the small town, they saw no signs of any of their pursuers, to their relief, and quickly proceeded to the local stables.

The man who owned the stables knew Freor, which helped their cause considerably. Freor didn't have time to haggle.

Freor addressed the shop keeper. 'Hello, Bernie! How is business going?' greeted Freor.

The man called Bernie gave an equally hearty greeting. 'Freor! I haven't seen you for a long time! Where have you been? Business with the horses has been slow, since we're so isolated, you see, but the bean business is going great! We're selling to the army, you see. Very good business, very good,' huffed Bernie.

Freor then became serious. 'Okay, Bernie. We're in a spot of trouble, and we need your best horses quickly. And tack. We'll pay whatever you want, but I won't be able to give you the pleasure of haggling,' he said.

'Anything for you, Freor, though I am disappointed that you're not going to haggle. Haven't had a good haggle for a long time,' replied Bernie before leading two roan horses out of the stables.

'They're the best I got. They're faithful, hardy and can handle the desert. I'll be sorry to let 'em leave. For you, the price is a hundred gold Iorads,' said Bernie.

'Thanks, Bernie. You've helped me out of a very tight spot. I'll owe you anything for this,' replied Freor before drawing a surprising amount of money from his purse.

'No need, old friend. But be sure to bring souvenirs from the capital,' said Bernie.

'You know where we're going?' Arnoan blurted surprised.

'Well, you are geared for the desert. You are crossing the desert aren't you? The only thing on the other side of the desert is the capital,' said Bernie scratching at his beard, puzzled at Arnoan's confusion.

Freor laughed lightly. 'Youngsters these days. Bernie, would you mind not to disclose where we're going to anyone,' said Freor, serious again.

'Of course, Freor,' replied Bernie.

'Good. We have to leave now Bernie, we've have some important business elsewhere. It's been nice to see you again,' said Freor.

'Come back again, will ya' Freor? You won't leave me hanging like last time again?,' said Bernie.

Freor said his farewells to Bernie before leading Arnoan away, lecturing him about keeping himself inconspicuous and unsurprised about anything that should happen.

'If it were soldiers that were questioning us or making statements of our business, any hint of surprise or confusion they would pounce on immediately. Don't do as you did at Bernie's shop again or we both may lose our heads,' said Freor.

After disguising themselves somewhat, the two made their way to other shops which sold desert equipment, finding the dealers much less forgiving than Bernie.

When they were done buying Arnoan's pack, Freor found his purse filled with silver and gold Iorads a lot less bulky than before.

They left the town in a rush, in fear of the soldiers and the man. As they rode, Arnoan questioned Freor on a few more subjects, though Freor was not willing to reveal much.

'Who was that man back at the house?' asked Arnoan after they had rode for an hour or so.

Freor waited a few seconds before answering. Probably checking whether or not to tell me, Arnoan thought angrily.

He started slowly, composing his reply. 'He is one of Draemor's apprentices, I suppose. After his ascension to power in the Empire of Rael in the east about two-hundred years before, Draemor needed help if he was to direct his newfound armies.'

'He trusted no one but himself, but he was willing to trust people like himself, but only if he could bend them to his will. So, he searched far and wide for children with a special innate Ability that he could make his trusted subordinates, especially Taron children though he found none after the Cleansing.'

'Since they were children from the age of six to twelve, they knew no better, and he trained them to obey his every command, going so far to bind them to him with a special type of magic.'

'He needed their consent first to make it work, and he knew that people who were older would be wiser than these younger kids. Many candidates died, but he replaced them with many more.'

'Up until now, there are I think, seven remaining from the original twenty.'

'When they first revealed themselves, they were officially called 'The First Order of Draemor', though that eventually disintegrated into 'The Seven of the New Council' when about thirteen were killed in the battles for control over the lands of Liamor, Daolicia and Delagore, about a hundred years ago.'

'That is the story of that man and his brood. If I can recall exactly, their names should be Toramel, Diiaral, Liaane, Telandra, Plion, Vorvordis and, the most powerful of them all, Drael, though nobody knows where he comes from.'

After this, Arnoan could wring no more answers from his tight lipped mouth.

'I have over-talked my limits, Arnoan. I promised your parents to protect you from potentially dangerous information, as you well know' was all he said.

They stopped at the mouth of the valley near dusk, and set up camp. Arnoan retrieved the food they had bought from the town out of his pack, and struck up a merry fire, while Freor prepared the camp.

Arnoan carried two small logs to provide seats for them both, and disguised the camp, so they could at least rest in peace.

As the first stars appeared, they ate their dinner and then sighed their contentment.

But Arnoan was still curious about many things that Freor had said. He had an ambition for learning all the knowledge that the world could give him and would not be thwarted by Freor.

Arnoan again questioned Freor, and Freor, seeing that Arnoan wasn't going to give up, answered a few more.

'Who is Draemor?,' he asked.

'Draemor was an only child and a powerful student in the arcane arts. He came from a family of aristocrats, who were quite delighted he had the innate power that marked him as a wielder of the Ability.'

'He was taken by the Ilia Tramarii of the Taron, to their academy in Delagore, when Emperor Illyrian still ruled Ioradas. Not many people know what the Ilia Tramarii were, but they were the power which opposed Draemor during the war. I might tell you what they are later.'

'He quickly rose through the ranks because of his rare Ability to excel at everything. But his ambition to learn everything of sorcery, of its powers, secrets and of its affiliation with other races, was said by some to be dangerous in a student like him.'

'But they did not act when the suspicion came and, by treachery, he got hold of one of the alien artefacts which he used to destroy the Taron and their school.'

'Not one of the Taron survived his slaughter, and many of their human students were killed, save for the seven who joined him to form the Old Council of Ioradas.'

'Then, they took control of Ioradas by convincing the people against Illyrian. They hired preachers, spread spies, corrupted many politicians and important people by blackmail or bribes, and used false information to rile the people against Illryian.'

'You know what happened afterwards.'

Arnoan started to ask more, but again Freor raised his hand and said 'It's late. Time for you and me to go to bed, I'd say.'

Arnoan unwillingly obliged and proceeded into his tent to sleep, while Freor sat on his log, staring at the fire, for a minute before hoisting himself up to get to tend to the horses and get to bed, dousing the fire as he fled into the night.


	6. The Capital City

The next day, they made their way back out of the valley into the open desert; the valley walls were too steep to walk over and the treacherous path slowed them down somewhat with their horses.

As they left the valley's entrance in the afternoon, they checked their filled water skins ready for the desert, ate what they could and continued on, turning north towards the great capital Dorimune, situated at the border, defended by the vast plain of the Dividing Desert to the south.

After walking for about five leagues in four hours before the heat crippled them and the horses, forcing them to find shelter in the unforgiving desert plain before marching another three leagues until giving up for the day.

'We're not going to get anywhere with this blasted sun searing our backs!,' said Arnoan, on the first night 'It would take months. I'd rather go face that sorcerer and his soldiers than enduring this slow torture.'

They both resolved then to travel in the night, and sleeping in the day in their tents, finding whatever shelter they could find.

In the first few days, they were undisturbed by thoughts of their enemies, concentrating of only leaving the arid, sandy wasteland of the Dividing.

But when Freor brought news of a pursuing battalion of soldiers about ten leagues behind on the fourth day, after scouting behind the desert at night, they started to worry.

'We'll be able to make it to the capital before being overtaken. We're the ones who have horses. Right, uncle?'

Freor gave a non-committal grunt while continuing onwards, which did not do much to sooth Arnoan's fears.

On the fifth day, they did not fare so well. The water in two of the water skins became foul, and they could not bear to drink it, so they disposed of the water.

The soldiers were also beginning to catch up, being driven on in a forced march, even though carrying their armour and gear and travelling on foot.

What Arnoan thought peculiar was how they got enough water to sate the thirst of so many soldiers, but he tried not to think about that. It led to thoughts about the sorcerer and his power, which had so brutally destroyed his home.

They hurried even quicker after that, travelling at a trot until their horses could not take anymore and then walking on their feet, leading the horses until they recovered. They continued this cycle with more haste, trying to keep their advantage of greater distance to its full extent.

But whoever was leading the soldiers must have caught a whiff of what they were doing, because the soldiers hurried even faster and went on the march even longer.

Not even Royal soldiers could last that long, thought Arnoan gloomily, tiring as he travelled longer and faster, driven by his determination not to be caught by the soldiers at their heels. It might have been a forced march, with these soldiers just having more stamina from extensive training, but Arnoan doubted it. Nobody could keep up at that pace for that long unless they were very motivated.

In a week, they had travelled about twenty leagues, but the soldiers had caught up and marched at least two leagues behind them. They could see the distant glinting, armoured figures trekking at a quick pace behind them in the open desert, which seemed to have no end even as they neared their destination.

Freor did not plan to stop after nightfall; the soldiers would still be marching despite the risk of some breaking legs on the rough terrain and with the pace the battalion were travelling at, Freor supposed that they would be caught in little more than a day.

If they could reach the border patrols of the capital city, they would be safe from Draemor as they dealt with the threat themselves. At least for a few weeks, thought Arnoan miserably, then we would certainly be on the run again.

After three hours of the chase, they finally encountered semi-arid land, the mark that the provincial border was close. Before the desert, Arnoan had never really appreciated green plants and animals, but now that had all changed.

With a cry of joy, he said 'We've nearly made it, Freor! Just a few more leagues!.'

There were plants all around now, the desert already forgotten in the land as well as the duo's minds. They were re-energized by the excitement of finally arriving to safety, and to be out of the desert at last.

'The soldiers are about two miles behind,' said Freor, returning from his brief survey of the area. 'They are going faster than we are on these tired horses, and if we don't make it fast to a border patrol, we will be overtaken.'

They continued for half an hour more, the capital Dorimune stood out in the landscape on an upraised hill, the sun illuminating its outer defensive wall of guard towers and battlements.

The land around it had been cleared at least to half a mile, as if they were expecting a great attack.

The soldiers behind them ground to a halt, knowing that they had lost the race, and turned to leave in the opposite direction.

But the guards from the battlements had seen them, and a detachment of cavalry was sent from the outer gates to give chase.

Soldiers, armoured in pure white armour and adorned with blue capes, rode past on their horses, ignoring them completely. They headed towards the soldiers of Draemor, who were exposed in the open and started to retreat to a more defendable position.

A tall man on a white horse approached them from the gates, with two soldiers accompanying him. His armour was decorated with three plumes and a star on the left of his chest, indicating rank.

A sword was sheathed at his side as well as a knife, and his armour was white tinged with blue, but was slightly battered as if fighting had occurred. _Some kind of different alloy_, thought Arnoan. The last time he had come here, the armour had been different and the men wearing them more carefree.

The soldier had a kind of stressful yet sad look in his eye, like he had been given an impossible job that he knew he would fail at.

'You two! Stop there. We have arrows trained on you, so don't get too confident on escape!,' he said roughly, advancing away from his escorts toward them with his hand at the sword hilt.

Freor whispered to Arnoan. 'Do what he says. He is the major who commands this part of the defence, by the rank. I'll do the talking.'

A mile behind him, Arnoan could hear battle being joined.

'Who are you and why have you brought a battalion of Rael soldiers to our gates? Answer truthfully or there will be consequences,' said the major.

'Major, I am sorry about that minor inconvenience, but we really did not mean to bring them along. We're expected by the King and we had to hurry to meet our appointment' Freor explained.

The major raised his eye sceptically. 'Why would an old man and a farm boy have business with the King? Why, to my eyes, you look like one of the apprentices of Draemor in disguise.'

'I am Freor,' said Arnoan's uncle, as if that would change anything.

'So you say you are he? What difference does it make if you can't prove it,' replied the major.

Freor made seemed to concentrate on the man for a second before the most extraordinary thing happened.

The major suddenly went stiff, and saluted. Arnoan did not understand why he had changed all of a sudden. Why the major had said 'so you say you are he…'

'Of course, had I known who you were, I would not have…' blustered the soldier, who seemed to be sweating abnormally. Freor raised his hand to coolly silence him.

'No need to explain yourself to me. You did your duty and that is what matters. It's good to be suspicious, especially in these times'

'Thank you, sir,' said the major relieved, leaving Arnoan completely confused with the whole interaction. 'I'll bring men to escort you to the palace.'

The major proceeded back inside, and as the soldier organised an escort, Arnoan asked angrily 'Who are you? Don't I even get the right to know who I'm travelling with, my supposed uncle?'

'There will be time for this later,' replied Freor curtly. Arnoan did not say any more, extremely annoyed that he knew nothing and that everyone else was party to some secret that seemed to include all but him.

The battle between the Rael soldiers and the Durandor cavalry had ended in victory for the defence forces.

About one quarter of the Rael soldiers had escaped, along with their commander, into a treacherous path leading back to the desert, where the horses could not tread.

The escort arrived, and made a defensive formation around them. The major also accompanied them, Freor asking him about news on the way to the palace.

'Times of late have been dangerous. We can no longer rely on the desert and the troops to provide defence for Dorimune, especially with Draemors cursed apprentices hiding whole battalions from sight,' replied the major, who was named Daniel, to one of Freor's questions.

'I'm afraid that Dorimune will fall at the end of the month, with Draemor gathering his forces and striking where we least expect, especially so far inland of the province.'

Freor was troubled by the news and asked nothing more, though how could it be any of his business whether they were ruled by the King or this 'Draemor', Arnoan was still left in the dark.

The company strode through the city, its widely paved roads hinting signs of neglect. A few stores and houses were abandoned and all the people they saw on the streets were ready for battle, sheathed knives and rusted swords at their waists.

Even though it was still late afternoon and not in the least bit dark, the gates and portcullis closed with a heavy thud.

The presence of the escort immediately cleared the roads, but there were not that many people on them anyway.

Ahead, the plain flag of a large half star, with five smaller stars decorating the other empty side in the formation of that of a semi-circle, could be seen clearing the tops of the high walls of the inner defence.

The smell of smoke and decaying detritus came strongly to Arnoan's nose. Apparently, according to the major, some city buildings had been burnt to the ground when an enemy raid tried to get over the outer defence but only managed to ravage the eastern establishments after an exchange of fire tipped arrows.

After a fifteen minute walk they reached the inner defence and the palace. There was a considerable number of soldiers there, guarding the entry into the courtyard. They were all checked of anything suspicious and their weapons were removed from them.

The major did not come with them, saying that he had to go back to his post, and bid them farewell. The escort followed him.

The defenders at the gate of the courtyard arranged another escort of five soldiers.

Arnoan noticed that these soldiers had white armour adorned with gold filaments, and the blue tinge was stronger in their armour.

Their swords were of fine make, and ceremonially decorated, though Arnoan had the feeling that they quite masterful at using them.

They followed the man who was of the highest rank, a captain, with three plumes and two stars.

They entered the palace by the atrium doors and were led up two flights of stairs to the south wing quarters of the palace, the captain telling them that they would be led shortly to the King Liorian after they had been made presentable.

They were given an hour. Arnoan quickly proceeded into his quarters and peeled off his clothes to jump into the bath.

After bathing, he saw that clothes had been laid out on the bed. He dressed quickly, feeling the drowsy warmth dull him into sleepiness.

Freor strode in, startling him from his reverie. He was dressed in the fine clothes of a nobleman, with a gold embroidered coat and pants.

Arnoan's temper started to heat as he thought about how Freor was still hiding important things from him, but Arnoan clamped down on it quickly.

This is not the time, he thought. Let the old man keep his secrets.

'Are you ready, Arnoan?' asked Freor. 'Remember who it is we're meeting. The King Liorian himself, so keep your temper and mind your manners'

As the hour dwindled, four Royal guards arrived at the door of their rooms and said it was time for the meeting.

They were led down the marble corridors of the inner palace, which were slightly congested with civil servants, engineers, overseers and, more so than all the others, grisly soldiers and high-ranking officers of the Durandor military.

They soon converged upon the central corridor which led like a highway to the throne room.

The guard presence was heavy around the entrance, two huge slabs of decorated marble, and it was decreed that all persons meeting the king would have an identification check to enter.

Arnoan fidgeted as blue crystals were given from their escort's pockets over to men equipped in red armour, who seemed to concentrate on it before nodding to the soldiers.

Everything went smoothly, and they were admitted minus the guards. The throne room was as massive as the area their own house occupied. Arnoan looked in awe at the statues and paintings of history which surrounded the room.

Most prominent was the fresco that covered the wall on which the throne was positioned. It showed the battles which led to fall of the old council, battles of thousands of soldiers thrown against each other like water, bloody fights and supreme destruction.

Then Arnoan noticed the king. He was a man in his late thirties, with a tall intimidating build, keen blue eyes, a guarded lined expression and frayed black hair on which the Crown of the Durandor, a simple ring of gold laurels ensconced with a small crystal at the head, rested.

He was garbed in white gilded robes which shone in the sunlight which touched it through one of the high arched windows, metres above their heads.

He sat on a rough marble throne, and looked up as they came in, flicking his gaze at Freor first from the reports he held in his hands. Then he glanced at Arnoan, but the gaze seemed to linger for a while before it turned back to Freor again, who led their strange procession.

Arnoan looked around to see the room completely surrounded by Royal guards, their swords sheathed and their spears butts resting on the floor, but that did not make them look complacent.

_All the more deadlier_, Arnoan shivered. He felt as if they were sheep that had just wondered into the wolf's lair.

Three figures surrounded the king, equipped in full white-blue officer armour and ceremonial swords. They were soldiers, Arnoan scrutinized, but far from ordinary. Then he saw their rank, five stars surrounding a gold crown.

Major Generals, if Freor's teachings in Continental History had been right. This could not mean good news, for the city and for them.

Freor strode up the steps which led up to the throne until he stood at least three metres from the king. Liorian dismissed the generals, who saluted with a fist to their hearts and took their leave. Arnoan would have expected the grand king of Durandor to be surrounded by a retinue of nobles, not all these men dressed in strange armour which dotted the room. It seemed they had fallen upon hard times, just as the city they ruled.

The King started to talk. 'So old friend, you have come back, as you said you would on my coronation, to our aid. I didn't think you would come, but I am grateful. We will need all the help we can get. The news is grim.'

'I heard. I didn't think Draemor would attack so soon either, but I am not surprised. After the Aollane insurgency, there was no doubt,' replied Freor slowly, as if reluctant to share anything out in the open. 'I have to ask, where are all the nobles? I would have expected all the houses to have arrayed here by now.'

The king dropped the stacked reports on the nearby table at the side of his throne, not bothering to pick up any that fell.

'Well,' began Liorian gradually, shifting on his throne to find a more comfortable stance before watching them cautiously. 'The remainder fled to Aollane after most of the members in their houses died during the war. Most of the youngest were captains among the army, and some were very competent, but that did not stop them dying like flies after Rael… took an interest in assassins.'

'Then most of the minor houses and the bigger houses that had decided that they had enough of me, all fled with some of the army they managed to control. But the Aollane rebellion took them by surprise. No doubt they are dead by now, though I am just a little happy to have some of the houses out of my way. I never really liked their ploys for power. The only houses that decided to stay were naturally those of myself and my wife.'

'It seems a lot has happened that I don't know about,' said Freor thoughtfully, his sharp eyes moving about the room, but at the same time still looking attentively at the king for any sign of discomfort or uneasiness. Arnoan had witnessed firsthand how Freor could make you believe he was doing one thing, but in fact he was doing something else entirely.

'Indeed. Come, I should not be burdening you with this now. I'm forgetting my duty as the host. You haven't changed a bit, Freor. Sorial will be glad to see you again,' said Liorian, motioning at them to come closer, but more at Freor than Arnoan.

'But who is your friend? What have you been doing all these years? Refresh me'

'This is Arnoan, my nephew and as for what I've been doing, I was living in Aollane at the edge of the desert before the rebellion. But before anything else is to be discussed, is there something important that's occurred. Something I might not know about?,' said Freor.

Liorian's face seemed to pale, as a dark shadow crossed his drawn face.

'I'm afraid that Dorimune will be finished at the end of the month and Durandor along with it in a half year.'


	7. Machinations of Draemor

Drael eyed the Master wearily as he kneeled before the symbolic blood red throne.

Around him, his master's lair was filled with objects of the darker arts of sorcery. Runes of a forgotten language covered some of the walls, and his master's notes were scrawled beside them as if he had been trying to discern something out of them.

Recently painted frescos covered the roof with images of the dark portal and the images of the destruction of Daornost. His master always looked at them frequently, the depictions of anger, ruin and death hovering on the black background of the walls in addition with the ever mysterious runes.

Drael still wondered whether the master was a genius or truly mad as pockmarked history made him out to be. Some of the… missions he had been given were quite unusual. He even suspected that some of the others had been thinking those very same treasonous thoughts; they had received as incredulous tasks as he had. And they suspected that everyone else thought that too.

But even because of the irregularity, he was usually eager to receive a task from his master. Today, however, was different. Every victory was rewarded with knowledge and every failure with an equally suitable, and devastating, punishment. Among the Seven, knowledge was power and they used it accordingly to benefit their own needs when it did not conflict with the Master's.

It was all a struggle of power, especially between the allies, where the more allies there were dictated less position for each individual and more distribution of the power itself. The less the so called 'allies' were, the better. They would all try to steal power from another, plotting each others deaths and then knifing their own 'allies' in the back. Sometimes he did that himself.

Drael knew the mechanics of the swift but subtle game of power and so did the others. And though he was second-in-command to Draemor, that did not mean that he ruled them as he wished. They were all but subservient and submissive. The very thought of them being servants to him was impossible! He knew some would skin him alive if he acted like that, Telandra for one. They bowed to the Master, not him unless the Master gave them a direct order.

Above him, Draemor was no doubt displeased with his failure, especially on the simple mission of capturing the boy and the old man.

_But it is not my fault_, Drael thought reassuringly. He still had more to report on the matter. He had been surprised that the mission he had been given had not been all it had seemed to be. And the old man had been a _very _unpleasant surprise. He had not expected a powerful wielder of the Ability to be hiding in the desert amongst farmers; he would have imagined them as lords and ladies or advisors to kings and queens. But perhaps after the Master's _Teladin Mor Ellein _had been hunting for the Ability users for over two centuries, that they decided to keep low. Those… creatures, simply put, gave him the shivers. That one would even think to create the _Mor Ellein_ was sure proof of an insane, but brilliant, mind. He had a suspicion that the Master had modelled them after the Dark Watchers, but modelling anything to those things was indeed greater madness.

His master sat on the throne, a look of intolerance and anger stirring in his dark eyes. Though his face remained neutral, Drael had seen enough of his sudden wrath to be know when to talk, grovel, take responsibility or just stay silent. This was one of the times that staying silent wouldn't go amiss.

Behind the Master, Drael could pick out the figure of Diiaral sneering out of the shadows at him and his dismal failure against a mere untrained boy. He was quite sure it was Diiaral; the uncommon grey shine of his eyes and the way his black hair melted into the darkness was unquestionable. Lately, he had been usurping Drael's authority, growing too much power for his own ambitions. But the man would be dealt with later, as soon as he got back into the Master's good graces. _I will make him rue the day he was born for this affront!_ Shoving his anger into the dark corners of his brain, he listened as the Master began to speak.

'I do not tolerate failure, Drael, as you well know from the example I made of Sorarelune, when he was hurled into the middle of the desert without water, stripped of knowledge and… a few other things,' said Draemor in a dangerously soft voice, exactly the same voice he had used on the fateful day he had sentenced Sorarelune. Drael had been quite glad to lose another rival though and had practically had a grinning face all month. It was the day he had been promoted.

'Master, I still haven't finished. Even though of my failure, I have gleaned something of value that could give you advantage,' replied Drael, before being interrupted.

'Yes, I know! You got the girl, but she is no use to me, except bait for the boy. And I won't be able to use that until the right time. Not much of an advantage.'

'But' interceded Drael 'I have found out more than that. The old man who was accompanying him is none other than Freor Trimaerlon, one of your old enemies, master.'

'He is the reason my mission failed. The cursed man disrupted our attempts by creating illusions, waylaying our men one by one into the desert and killing the captain.'

The master halted for a moment, eying him with renewed tolerance. To Drael, it looked as if he was surveying something akin to scum at his feet.

'I see,' said Draemor. 'Though I expected better, it is clear that you are no match for one of the likes of Freor. Not alone. I will deal with him myself when Dorimune falls. I wonder if the boy knows who he really is.'

'What will we do now, master?' asked Drael, sensing the shift of fault removing responsibility from his shoulders.

A smile came to Draemor's dark lips. 'It is time for Durandor to fall. Rally the troops, and tell Liaane to go with you to Dorimune. Follow the plan at all costs. I want to make an example of Dorimune to the whole continent.'

'Liaane? Are you sure? It could be risky for her to revert…' trailed Drael, as he noticed a change in the Draemor's eyes. He was treading hazardous ground and this time, he knew where to push the limit.

'She will go with you. We can taunt the enemy with her, make their failure complete, especially to the one who I am thinking of. Once my plan in Durandor has been executed, we will go back to Delagore. There is something there at the remains of Daornost I need.'

'Yes, master,' said Drael submissively. 'But what of the Delagore Protectorate?'

'It is of no concern to me. I will crush them as I will crush Durandor. You are dismissed.'

He got up to leave and as he past through the entrance he heard Draemor say: 'Don't fail me again. I'd hate to… _perform_ on you as I did to Sorarelune.'

Drael strode out quickly and disappeared into the labyrinth which made up the royal palace of Halyrael. He knew very well what would be the consequences of failing again and he wanted to start as quickly as possible.


	8. The Lieutenants of Death

The palace, as Arnoan had come to find out, was a huge warren filled with corridors, libraries, barracks, courtyards and kitchens, all filled with marvellous displays of architecture and the arts.

Freor had excluded him from the war council that was to be held in the throne room and had told him he could do what he liked, in reasonable bounds of course.

A part of him was angry that he had been ostracised from something as important as this, which involved him as much as Freor, but the other part was excited that he would be able to explore the palace.

He had been given a map, so not to get lost, and an identification crystal for security reasons.

He wandered around the marble corridors aimlessly, looking at the sights that the palace could offer him. He examined frescos, paintings, potteries and statues while travelling exclusively on the central corridor.

Most of the arts were dedicated to the history of Ioradas, but some were of foreign design, showing places and battles that Arnoan had never heard of in a far off continent.

After half an hour, he became bored and proceeded to the central library instead. He had a thirst to learn more about the world he was living in, and its history.

Freor would hardly help him, so he would find out what he wanted to know himself.

He walked steadily up the central corridor until he found what he was looking for, the big oak entrance doors to the library. He pushed open the doors easily, gliding on their oiled hinges.

The library was a cavernous room, but a little smaller than his house. Rows of shelfs crisscrossed the room, each neatly stuffed with old books, yellowing parchments and maps.

Each row had an individual number attached to the front, which he assumed dictated which books it contained.

He walked up to a large desk where four people, librarians he supposed, were sorting old books into piles, scribbling notes in a relatively big record book slumped at the front.

One of them saw him and motioned for him to come to the front, so he asked them if they could point him out to the direction of the history section.

He wanted to know about the old council, the wars they waged, the seven apprentices, magical exploits in history, who Freor might actually be and, especially, Draemor.

'Come with me,' said one of the younger librarians, a girl with dark hair, green eyes and ink stained hands, about his age.

She led him through the maze with ease without falter, as if she memorized the whole library perfectly. This was probably her whole life, and it was a cosy one. Arnoan envied how peaceful it was compared to what was now his existence.

She talked with him as they walked. 'You don't seem to be armed all too well. After the first assassinations, we were all given tranquilizer propellers. Didn't you know?'

She led him to a shelf with the number six pinned on the front.

'Here is where you will find most of the prominent history books, mostly dating back to a thousand years ago up to now,' she said as she smiled at him. 'It seems you and me share a common interest. If you need any help, just call out for Felima.'

She left him to his investigation of the shelves.

Arnoan piled up a few books of interest that he might want to read on a nearby table.

When he had gathered about nine, he sat down on a rickety chair and picked up the first book, "The Struggles of the Old Council", and started to read.

He was rusty in his reading. Freor had taught him so long ago, and as a farm boy, he had not used it much, except maybe at the market.

He read out of it most of events that Freor had told him, except in more detail including dates, logistics, origins, eyewitness accounts and maps.

He picked up a few interesting snippets though.

"_The rebel leaders of the last meeting were, alas, betrayed by the one they had least suspected, and maybe not suspected at all. Zaor's only daughter had been captured during the Second Battle of Daolicia, where Zaor had reputedly sheltered her from Draemor's prying search to capture Taron children."_

"_Draemor found her and coaxed her to tell him anything that might be useful. She, unwittingly, told him the plans of the rebel meeting and a gap in the protection barrier which Zaor himself had weaved around the Silver Tower, which she had sensed with her Ability."_

"_Draemor used this information, appearing at the meeting without warning and killed nine of twelve human leaders of the united rebellion."_

"_Zaor's daughter then disappeared from memory, and no author could ever write an undisputed account of her capture. Whether Draemor killed the daughter of his worst enemy or subjugated her into his apprentices, only Zaor can know, though even he has disappeared into the sands of time."_

He skimmed through the book quickly, reading only those parts of the account he had not known about in detail.

He picked up the second book, "The Studies of the Cartographer", and read that also. It had been translated from Taron writing, it said annotated at the front, since the Cartographer himself had been of that race.

It was mostly composed of instructions on making different machines, mathematical values for consideration, sequences of values and many other things he did not understand.

It was mostly a boring book, but he read something worthwhile and probably the most interesting subject in the whole of his readings, though a little confusing in its scientific form.

"_Properties and Values of the Directional Portal."_

"_The directional portal is a potent device designed to make a fold of space and time, as interpreted by the Cartographer himself. An example that the Cartographer annotated was that the shortest way to get from point A to point B is zero."_

"_To use this method of transportation, space and time would need to be folded so point A and point B existed in the same place. Imagine a sheet of parchment, with point A at one corner and point B at the other." _

"_If you fold the parchment so that point A and point B existed at the same place, you could step from point A to B via the portal and you would have crossed the whole sheet in a fraction of the time. Space and time would then return to normal, the sheet unfolding, and the portal would dissipate."_

"_But powerful energy from specific forces is required to drive the portal, to imbue it with enough exotic energy to sustain the opening. The stability of these powers is in question, when used in conjunction with constructs."_

"_The Cartographer also has noted that the use of the powerful abilities of one of the Taron is required to direct the portal to the selected place of transportation, but the specifics of this was lost when then the Cartographer was supposedly killed in his investigation of the inner gateway."_

"_Machines are required to open the gateway if it is to be created by non-Taron experimentalists. The innate Ability of the Taron can supply the energy needed for the gateway to open, and the combined power of three can complete this task without the use of machines."_

"_Non-Taron must use machines to concentrate the required power and supply the gateway, but they must have at least one magic user to supply the gateway with the required force of magic."_

"_Once the gateway has been successfully opened, the need to supply magic to the gateway by the magic user is no longer required if machines are used."_

"_The three Taron procedure to create a gateway without machines, requires at least one Taron to maintain and direct the portal."_

"_The Cartographer has noted that without a directing Taron, the portal will automatically converge on the "Abyss" as is named by him."_

"_The Abyss is a dangerous place not of this world. Certain death awaits one to cross the threshold without protection. Magic and all other forces are distorted there, so there may be no viable protection at all."_

"_In his first examination, the Cartographer used his abilities to protect himself when he crossed. The other place is noted as 'surreal, with vicious apparitions killing anything that trespasses.'"_

"_He found that as he proceeded deeper into that place, the distortion grew until he could no longer bear to hold the shield"_

"_After his return, in his notes he connects the distortion of the forces to another force, so strong in that place that it bends everything to it. He guesses a strong artefact imbued with an unknown amount of power of an unknown force or if not, an invisible force corresponding with one of the unknown laws of science in that space."_

"_He returned to that place to carry out further experiments, but he must have delved too deeply into that place for he never returned again."_

"_Such is the detail of the last experiment of the Cartographer."_

Arnoan finished the book, digesting the information. An artefact imbued with an unknown amount of power of an unknown force. Is that what Draemor was after or something else?

He must have known that even the Cartographer died trying to reach whatever was contained there, so why did he think he had a better chance? He also must have known that he would need a Taron to direct the portal, but he constructed it anyway.

Was his original plan really to invade the other continents, lead his colleagues to their deaths or retrieve something from the Abyss?

Arnoan couldn't puzzle out the answers and was about to reach for another book, when a hand gripped his shoulder.

He started, jumping up and whipping around, only to see that the owner of the hand was Felima.

'Sorry. I didn't mean to start you,' she said apologetically, withdrawing her hand. 'Your uncle is at the front desk, calling for you.'

Arnoan followed her back to the front desk carrying the seven heavy unread books. He borrowed them and walked out of the library with his uncle, heading for their quarters.

On the way, Freor asked 'What books are you reading? The guardsmen told me that you had last checked in with the security crystal at the library'

'I've been searching up a few books of history, about the time of when the council still ruled,' replied Arnoan passively. 'I didn't know you could track people with these crystals.'

'I asked about that too in the war council. They said that it was to counter any spies that could be on the lurk, especially Draemor's apprentices' explained Freor.

'The crystals are very hard to find, and can only be found in places where the Ability is strongly resonant. These crystals have a special capability to mind link, and only a few people can use it.'

'All users of the Ability apparently can use it and a few people without it also. The people in the red armour are "Readers". They can read the crystals, and can sense but cannot use the Ability.'

'The mind link the crystal establishes creates a network of Readers and crystals. Through this can any Reader track you or any of the enemy if they get their hands on a crystal.'

'But the Readers maintain constant vigilance and shorts out the innate power of any crystal in the hands of spies or otherwise. They also relay their location to the Sword-Captain of the Guards. Unless one of the Readers has been subverted, you don't need to worry about anyone trying to kill you. Yet.'

Arnoan was not heartened by the news.

When they arrived at the door of their quarters, Freor stopped him from opening the door to his room.

'I speak from experience when I say that you shouldn't go into a room without caution, even if it's your own.'

Arnoan nodded slowly, dropping the books and silently unsheathing his knife. Freor opened the door a little, before pushing it out of the way with his foot.

Instantaneously, a knife flashed in the darkness towards Arnoan, thrown from the hand of a black garbed assassin.

Freor pushed Arnoan hard onto the floor as the knife flew past, hitting the outside corridor wall with a dull sound.

With a savage shout, the muscled man ran with berserk rage to tackle Freor, but he nimbly side stepped and drove his elbow into the man's gut.

The assassin faltered, clutching his stomach, before his momentum drove him into the wall. Freor helped Arnoan up from the marble floor before checking on the man.

'Unconscious, with a cracked scull' observed Freor, over to Arnoan.

After a few seconds, running footsteps could be heard from the other end of the corridor, echoing an approach.

Seven Royal guards along with a Captain, with their swords unsheathed, stopped as they saw the scene.

Freor explained what happened and the Captain, pale faced that something of this magnitude had occurred under his watch, gave his sincerest apologies to Freor.

Two of the guards dragged the man out of the corridor, heading for the dungeon, while the a third sprinted to tell Liorian of the attempted assassination.

The other four, including the Captain, stayed with them, checking their quarters for any further threat before telling them it was all clear.

Nonetheless, they kept their swords at the ready.

Freor advanced up to the wall, where the forgotten knife was stuck, Arnoan walking up with him.

Pulling it out of the marble which it so cut through like butter, Freor seemed to examine it for half a minute before showing Arnoan the knife. Taking a look at the dagger, he shivered; it was still fatally sharp.

'Careful, the whole knife is covered with a deadly poison, probably created by the Ability in nature,' said Freor. 'Also, I found this attached to the side of the knife.'

He handed a piece of torn parchment over to Arnoan. What it read made him shiver.

"A gift from the Master"

Freor examined the knife with a harder scrutiny, as if he could see something that Arnoan could not. Some sense twinged inside Arnoan, reverberating into the notice of his mind, but he did not give it another thought.

'It was aimed at me, because the knife has an aura about it. The poison and the blade was encoded to hurt only me. You can prick your finger and nothing will happen, no blood will be drawn and no poison will be given.'

'The assassin must have targeted you first, since you were the closest. Draemor would want to know if the blade struck me or not, so if the blade touches me, he would know instantly that I was as good as dead.'

'Since he wouldn't want anyone to die before schedule, he aimed this assassination at me only. He can be very sadistic in his methods' concluded Freor, in a troubled tone.

'How do you…' began Arnoan, scrutinizing Freor closely.

A shout and sounds of battle came from the corridor, echoing chaotically around Arnoan, Freor and the four soldiers, their eyes darting everywhere up the marble corridor.

War horns blew somewhere inside the palace, giving rise to realisation to Arnoan. How did the assassin get in? The only way would be if the palace itself was breached and some, if not most, of the palace guards were not at their post…

Freor seemed to stare blank-eyed for a moment before reacting at all to the sound, focusing on Arnoan as if he could read his mind.

'The assassin … was a diversion and an attempt at my life at the same time! He was always good at double strikes, maybe more than we know. We have to get out of here quickly. Whatever Draemor is planning, it will be catastrophic to the war effort.'

They and their escort ran up the corridor, passing multiple intersections before emerging into the central corridor, where a scene of pure pandemonium was occurring.

White-blue uniformed Royal guards were fighting ferociously with black beetle-armoured soldiers with gold and crimson capes running down their backs, just up the hallway.

Soldiers were killing each other with cudgels, knives, swords, axes and other exotic weapons that Arnoan could not give a name to. Hand to hand combat was common, soldiers pinning, striking and breaking the necks of their enemy.

But in the centre of the massacre, mysteriously, stood a woman, wearing black with the striped colours of the Rael Empire on the left shoulder of her long dress, like bars of rank though they were curved to fit the shoulder.

Arnoan could not see her face; a blue nimbus seemed to envelop her, warping her image as if he had looked through the wrong end of a spyglass.

She looked insignificant beside the gory fights of the male combatants around her, but he soon saw why she was standing so calmly and unafraid in the battle and was unapproached by any of the Royal guards.

She saw them approaching from the side passage and advanced towards them in swift strides. A Royal guard tried to lunge her with a huge broadsword, and Arnoan was certain that she was about to be sliced from head to navel, until she flicked her wrist lazily to send a blast of fire into the man's chest.

The poor soldier was thrown back against the wall and he screamed as he quickly was enveloped in the blue fire fuelled by the power of the Ability. The fire seemed to be feeding on his flesh as he was roasted in his armour, until he was but a piece of blackened meat. He fell quickly, as did all the others who dared to attack or get in her way, friend or foe.

The corridor was already littered with dead warriors, more with Royal guard colours than the oppressive beetle-like black, and blood was splattered on the walls of the palace. A few Readers also lay lifeless, looking to have fought rather then be taken.

Splinters of tapestry and pottery lay on the floor where they had fallen, while swords and weapons were buried under rubble and corpse alike.

Arnoan could not believe that this was what war could be like. He had thought it had been all about glory, but as he saw the carnage that erupted and blood spraying around the area, he nearly threw up.

The woman was not but five metres ahead, and from this distance Arnoan could see through the confusing distortion that covered her face.

She looked a year older than him, with black flowing hair, a delicate face with petite lips and high cheekbones, hard green eyes and a medium graceful figure. She was probably one of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, yet there was something, a darkness which haunted her features…

Beside him, he could feel Freor stiffen, but with surprise or fear, Arnoan did not know. He hoped it was not the latter.

She stopped, looking squarely at Freor as if the solders and Arnoan did not exist.

'Freor Trimaerlon,' she said as she smiled without joy. 'We meet again. I knew you would survive the Master's unsubtle attack, but he wanted to test you, see how you would cope to a change of tactics.'

'Liaane' Freor acknowledged with his unreadable eyes fully directed at her, his tone suggesting he was greeting an old friend. 'You look as powerful… and as vain as you did at the time of the Revolution.'

It was Arnoan's turn to stiffen, as did the soldiers flanking him, when they heard the name. Liaane, the Second Lieutenant of Draemor, he thought in terror. This was the end of them. But, simultaneously, another thought forcibly entered his head. What was Freor's connection with her?

Behind Liaane, the battle continued to converge toward the throne room, though the miniature Rael army was no match for the Royal guards without the supporting sorceress.

Liaane flicked her eyes over the group, settling for a while on Arnoan before continuing back to Freor. Arnoan was annoyed how he was so easily disregarded, and when he realised what he was thinking, he laughed at himself. _Here of all times!_

'I will not tolerate any more games, Freor. Give me the boy and you will not be damaged… too badly,' she demanded, though the confidence she had exuded earlier had slightly diminished, her eyes narrowing at every move Freor dared to make.

'You were no match for me last time, Liaane, and even now. Run back to your petty master, while you still have your life' Freor pouncing on her obvious weakness.

But as he said this, a man in a near identical uniform to Liaane stepped out behind her from another side passage. The same bars covered his shoulder, but there was a difference. Under them were a line of three saffron stones which seemed to glow with an inner red light, exuding an aura of crackling power.

He was taller than Freor, and moved with strong steps towards them. He had a handsome face, with black hair and a sharp face which resembled with his night black uniform very suitably.

Arnoan recognised him. He was the man Arnoan had engraved in his mind, a feared and hated enemy, the one who had destroyed his life and now held in his possession what he regarded as the only person he had ever truly loved as family.

His penetrating blue eyes seemed to sear through Arnoan, as he swept his gaze around them, promptly disregarding him and the others. The soldiers and the Captain dropped their swords as if they had been for a moment white-hot, before freezing into place.

Arnoan tried to run for it, but he found he could not budge a muscle. They were locked in place by some unknown force. The man must have noticed, for he sneered at him before turning to Freor, who seemed to be the only one who could move.

'You are beaten, Freor. The Master will be pleased once your death at _my_ hands is announced,' said the man, directing the comment at both Liaane and Freor, baring his pointed teeth towards his prey. Freor did not react, setting a smooth face which seemed to make the man sneer even further.

'You may find that I am very hard to defeat, Drael. Do not believe that you have the advantage even though there are two of you. Even your spineless Master could not kill me with his currently dead allies,' said Freor, in tones of absolute self-confidence, unshaken by the fact he was facing the two most powerful figures ever to walk the continent. Had Arnoan control of his muscles, he would have bolted and run from the sheer knowledge of the evil deeds that the man in front of them had committed.

He returned to his eyes to see Drael flush angrily, but he countered Freor by a taunt Arnoan did not understand.

'No, perhaps not, but he did something even better. I hope you still miss her, for she will serve the Master always, and will be an empty shell for as long as she lives'

Pure rage came onto Freor's face, something Arnoan had never before seen in his trouble-free uncle. For a moment, he seemed to dwarf everything and everyone, until even Drael took a step back, face white with fear though fists clenched in determination.

Arnoan heard something at the back of his mind.

_Get ready to run,_ said the presence, before disappearing out of his consciousness.

Freor raised his hands, and something pure white shot out of them towards Drael. Arnoan suddenly found he could move his muscles again, and dived into a side passage out of the crackling air.

The soldiers abandoned their swords and did the same, their armour creaking as they struggled through the air, crashing like tin plates when they hit the stone ground.

Both the sorcerer and the sorceress raised a green nimbus as a shield around them, obscuring their features from Arnoan's eyes.

The entity that had shot out of Freor's hands seemed to be absorbed into it. Liaane and Drael conjured two fiery orbs into their hands, and simultaneously hurled the fireballs towards him.

He leaped into the side passage after them, and cried: 'Didn't I tell you to run, you blundering fools!' as the scorching globes hit the wall next to Arnoan, after slowly curving towards Freor in an attempt to finish their master's will.

He and the soldiers ran in terror as the two sorcerers chased after them through the hallway.

_Arnoan, this is Freor. Don't ask me how I can talk to you through your mind now, just listen. Somehow, those two combined are both stronger than me; I can't hold them off forever. But I have a plan and if it doesn't work… just hope it works_.

Freor abruptly wheeledaround to face the two sorcerers as they came around the corner into a dining hall.

Arnoan faltered in his run and stopped, turning around to face Freor's back and the other two who were previously chasing them. Surprising them, Freor launched a tirade of attacks in the seconds before they had time to raise their protection fields. Unfortunately, they themselves dived for cover before any attacks could reach their targets.

Even though he had been told to escape and his own fear strangled him, he couldn't leave his uncle to probably die against these people. He was no soldier, only just a farmer, but he had to do something.

The crackling of power in the air told him the confrontation had just begun in earnest, and a whistling sound seemed to grow stronger before something barely missed his head and knocked one of the lamps out of its brackets on the far wall.

He hid in the newly created shadows as the lamp rolled off down the opposite corridor, partly because of fright and partly because of its underlying strategic value. He did not know where the latter thought had come from.

He could see Freor now, battling inevitably to his doom as he was pushed back through the tables near a wall close to the blockaded rear exit.

Flashes of razor sharp light and obscured darkness flew threw the air, seeming as if the three were conducting a colourful but dangerous light show.

A wild plan formed in Arnoan's terrorized mind as he wracked his brains to think of what could help Freor. It was so mad but at the same time so brilliant that he was surprised that he had thought of it.

_If I could just get behind them…_, he thought.

A flash of inspiration came as he saw Freor accidentally knock a few more lamps out from a misplaced attack. The thought that the darkness provided a good vantage point was as good as any that he would likely think of now.

He crawled to the side of the wide passage, covering himself with the veil of darkness until he was nearly beside the enemy sorcerers.

They were concentrating on Freor, perspiration running down their skin, but hardly near the amount Freor was sweating. He had taken cover behind a thick stone barricade that had been erected near the exit. _To re-energise perhaps_, thought Arnoan, half-hoping and half-fearing.

But the two assailants pounded at the stone with all their might, using heat, cold, air, sorcerous fire, light, darkness and even hurling objects using magic. Huge chunks of stone flew off, hitting the walls and the floor with lethal force, but bouncing off Drael's and Liaane's green nimbuses.

They had the upper hand, and they knew it, but in their fervour they had forgotten everything else. They would not notice him unless he came up behind them and said boo. _Something that can be exploited…_

He whipped out the spare tranquilizer propeller that Felima had given him when they had been talking in the library. He fitted his only piece of ammunition; a transparent dart filled with a potent yellow substance. If he missed, it was the end of Freor.

He crouched and aimed the propeller like a crossbow, straight towards Drael. He was dreadfully afraid of getting caught or missing, but it was the only way to save Freor. He steeled himself and fired.

The unexpected recoil overpowered his weak arms, toppling him into the wall, though he managed to stop most of his momentum with his hand.

Thankfully, the dart had escaped the propeller's influence before the machine had jerked in recoil. But he felt something else escape him, travelling with the dart; something which he could not place but had still made his arms weak to feel like lead.

Drael reacted immediately, head swivelling to the side, icy blue eyes staring straight at him, as if he had known Arnoan had released the dart from that very same darkened spot.

Meanwhile, the dart travelled true, and struck straight into Drael's neck. The green shield didn't even seem to slightly slow it down.

He gasped with pain, as the dart struck and emptied the fluid into his veins. Drael ripped off the dart quickly, but realized it was drained.

In just a few seconds, the tranquilizer worked to its full effectiveness, landing so close to his brain. Drael's shield flickered and died, as the man stumbled to keep his footing.

He had lost his wits, struggling with his own muscles and swaying around like a drunken man in a brawl, nearly tripping over an upturned bench.

He must have been a lot stronger in will and physical strength than he looked, for the dart could incapacitate a human in less than fifteen seconds so close to the head and Drael was still standing in thirty.

But the battle was over for Drael and Liaane, for they knew they would be crushed by Freor in their weakened state.

Liaane looked towards Drael and then towards Arnoan in the darkness, but strangely did nothing to harm him or capture him even though he was so close, quickly supporting Drael to hobble out of the corridor. That left Arnoan wondering.

Suddenly, Freor appeared over the scarred, battered barricade, advancing towards him. He looked at angry, but Arnoan saw a glint of admiration in his eyes.

'Why didn't you follow my orders, Arnoan' Freor asked quietly.

'I couldn't leave you there to die. I had to do something. I will not leave a comrade who it is within my power to help, even if I like him or not,' replied Arnoan with stubborn resolve.

Freor unexpectedly smiled. 'There is more to you than I thought, for a farm boy. Thank you, Arnoan, for helping me. No doubt that I would be dead or in Drael's hands by now had you not intervened'

Arnoan accepted the thanks humbly, before following Freor out of the hall into the central corridor. He had a strange feeling that beyond that hallway, there would be a hard road awaiting him, one that would change the course of history. And that he would be one of the very few and fortunate to witness it evolve and mould it. Actually, the thought that it was fortunate now seemed remarkably absurd. What he would do to get his life back, even Arnoan did not know, for he had nothing to lose anymore. A weakness or strength, only time would tell.


End file.
